Absolution
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: Two years after Christine left him, Erik finds himself haunted by her, still, and enlists the help of a census taker to hunt her down and force another confrontation. Both EC and EOW.
1. Christine

Chapter One: Christine

She thought she was dreaming.

There was a silvery shimmer to the air, and a quiet hum lingered in it. Her eyes fluttered wildly, but all was darkness around her, the darkness, not of a comforting night, but darkness of the soul—

Self-induced—

Self-inflicted—

Whatever was happening to her now, whatever had happened , would happen— it was her fault, and worst of all— there was nothing she could do to change it.

She couldn't catch her breath— she breathed as if she'd been running, exerting her body far beyond what it could bear.

Light suddenly blossomed, assaulted her eyes. It was harsh white, tinted at the edge with red— it looked as though the sun was coming up and she was in the very centre of it's glory. She cried out and closed her eyes, but it was there all the same— she couldn't escape it—

Slowly, she began to make out shapes in the brightness.

Some were quite small, well below her knees; others loomed above her, great hulking shapes that filled her with unutterable dread.

She was in a graveyard— a house of the dead—

Her father was here, waiting somewhere, waiting to come forth and claim his daughter—

She wept silently, and without tears.

Looking down at herself, she saw she wore white. It blended with the brightness around her till she couldn't tell where it began and where it ended. It was pale, fabulously beaded, exquisitely beautiful, and white as milk. The folds of it fell past her feet, joining the cold whiteness there on the ground—

Snow.

She was surrounded by snow.

And the red around the edges was the blood running down her face, past her eyes, to pool in drops at her chin, then to fall to the pristine whiteness of the wedding dress—

She was to be married in a cemetery.

And there were two grooms.

They emerged from the whiteness, coming towards her slowly— the taller, thinner figure stalked; the slighter one walked with shoulders held back, square and proud. Both men, but a world of difference between them— the younger, smaller one had a noble face, a bright, clear pair of brown eyes, a firm chin, a determined set to his lips. He looked clean and safe and warm and comforting.

The older, taller one was entirely different altogether. A mask concealed most of his features— all she could see was eyes with the color and energy of a lightning-storm, and a mouth that was both cruel and soft, proud and humble, distant and desired— lips shaped with a perfection that made her want to weep.

They came and stood before her and asked her to make her choice.

She cried— she wept— she begged, she implored them— not to make her do this. To take the choice out of her hands, her weak hands— she could not bear to break the heart of either one of them. She pleaded with them not to leave a decision like this on her shoulders, not to doom her to a life spent in regret—

Either way she chose, she would lose.

They saw reason.

Clearly they could not leave this matter to her. After all, she was not the only person concerned— the lives and happinesses of three beings were contingent on the outcome of this situation.

"She cannot marry us both," said the younger. "We cannot both have her."

The older said nothing, but the look in his eyes was clear—

_If I cannot have her, no one will!_

Men. Men are weak, just as much as women are. When a decision cannot be made by words, the only thing left is action.

In the blink of an eye, the rapiers were out— they flashed in the light, silver streaks of death, plunging, thrusting—

The younger man was fitter— his arms were well-muscled and ready— he fought hard, panting with exertion.

The older man fought harder, and no breath escaped his lips, for he had stopped breathing long ago.

Christine shut her eyes and prayed that, no matter what the outcome, it would be over soon. She did not want anyone to be hurt, she did not want anyone to die, but she wanted even more for this hell to end—

It did.

In an unnaturally swift motion, the older man ran the younger through. He forced the sword in deep— the younger gasped out his last breaths and sank to his knees in the snow, blood staining it in an ever-widening circle. The older left his rapier where it was, stood up straight and turned his back on the younger man's corpse—

Turned to Christine and—

Cursed her name for making him a murderer.

She thought she was dreaming.

She did not know if it was dream or reality.

She thought it was reality when she awoke, and even the comforting bulk of her husband in the bed next to her could not convince her otherwise.

She breathed in deep—

Her eyes were wide—

She dreamed of him still, after two years—

And somewhere out there, in whatever hole he had dug for himself, Erik dreamed of her.


	2. Conspiracies, Secrets, and Lies

Chapter Two: Conspiracies, Secrets, and Lies

It was, for once, a beautiful day in Paris. The storm clouds that had damped the city streets and the people's spirits had finally gone, leaving behind a gentle late afternoon of warm, lazy sunlight and a cool breeze that skated down the street and fiddled with the skirts of the small group of women that walked together down the thoroughfare.

Two of them were obviously sisters, most likely twins, both older, firm, matriarchal ladies. The third was in her forties, skinny, washed-out. Different as they were, their expressions linked them indelibly and undeniably together, and it was no surprise to see them walking down the streets together— Mrs. France, the mothering face of the nation.

The fourth woman didn't fit at all. She was younger, mostly likely not even thirty, and possessed a head of flame-red hair, braided and wrapped around her head. Her face underneath it was pale-skinned and freckled from too much time in the sun, with soft brown eyes and a dreamy look to her pensive lips. She walked slower than the other women, taking a deep and obvious pleasure in the glory of the day. She wasn't watching where she was going, and would have walked into a wall if one of the others hadn't grasped her arm and pulled her out of the way.

"Honestly, Margaret! You must be more careful!"

"Sorry, Annamarie— I wasn't thinking."

Annamarie gave an undignified snort. "And tell me what else is new, then? Gravette, have you the map?"

"Oui," sighed Gravette, the thin woman, pulling a large blue-print-like map of the city from a voluminous pocket. "There's only a few more buildings in our section— only one more on this street—"

She followed the map with a thin finger, then pointed at the edifice that stood silent in front of them.

The women were quiet for a moment.

"Oh," said Annamarie, "I don't suppose anyone lives there."

"No, not anymore," said Gravette.

Margaret could not understand the seriousness of their tones, and asked, "Why do you speak this way? You sound as if a great tragedy befell the inhabitants of the place."

"And so it did," said Annamarie with a sigh.

"What is it? Madame, please, I don't understand."

The three older women looked at each other. They knew Margaret Blessing was new in town, arrived not six months ago from Limerick, her hometown in Ireland. There was no way she could be expected to know the story of the great disaster that befell the Opera House— the story of a diva named Christine Daae— the story of the Phantom of the Opera.

It was a sad and a dramatic story, and gave the women chills simply to think about it— however, these kinds of things could be borne when there was an appreciative ear and a good story to relate.

And so, with looks that suggested conspiracies, secrets and lies, the three women told young Maggie Blessing all about the ghost that lived under the Opera House, who had fallen in love with a singer and was rejected, who had finally completed his descent into madness by releasing a chandelier onto the unsuspecting audience, which resulted in a fire that devastated the Opera Populaire. Margaret listened with her dark eyes growing wide as the tale unfolded.

The story told, the three tellers waited complacently for the young woman's reaction.

It was not what they expected.

"Oh, the poor man! Tell me, if he was as wonderful a singer as you say, and had as much charm of manner, why then did this Mademoiselle Daae reject him?"

The three ladies looked at each other.

"Because it seems to me," Margaret went on, "that her choosing the Viscomte over her apparent soul-mate was rather— greedy, really."

"Greedy? How so?"

"Well, this de Chagny fellow had money, yes? And I find it unlikely that an Opera Ghost should have anything other than his heart and the strength of his regard to lay at her feet. That is how it is greedy, madames. And perhaps if she had not rejected him, his madness should have been checked— before he did anything so disastrous as what occurred."

The three ladies gaped. "Do you mean to say, child, that you blame Mademoiselle Daae for the destruction?"

"Oh, no, not at all. I never blame people for their actions, unless I know them personally. I merely suggest that things would have been different had she accepted him."

"And undoubtedly they would have been," interrupted Annamarie, with a dramatic shudder of her shoulders and a roll of her eyes. "They would have been dreadful!"

"More dreadful than three dead, thirty wounded?" Margaret asked mildly. "Or is it possible that you have exaggerated your figures." The ladies didn't answer and after a moment she went on, "You didn't answer my question, at any rate."

"What question, Mademoiselle Margaret?"

"Why did this Miss Daae reject the ghost? If he was indeed a man, and not just a spirit. And if he did indeed love her as desperately as you say he must have done. Why reject a man who offers you his love and life, everything he possesses?"

"Mademoiselle, you are a romantic," said Gravette, shaking her head with a smile. It was Lucille, who heretofore had not spoken, who answered Margaret's question.

"He was hideous, Madamoiselle— awfully deformed. It was this which truly drove him mad— drove him to hide his form beneath the Opera House, and his countenance behind a mask!"

Margaret frowned thoughtfully. "You tell me this man was rejected, ultimately, because of his physical appearance?"

The three ladies nodded. Margaret nodded back.

"I know not what reaction you intended to elicit in me, whether it be horror, or fear, or laughter of some diabolical enjoyment— but this tale has driven me only to pity the Opera Ghost, and despise the diva, Christine Daae."

"I thought you said you did not blame people for their actions," objected Annamarie.

"Indeed I do not. I never said anything about liking them, however." Maggie returned her gaze to the abandoned hulk of the Opera House. "Whatever happened to the diva?"

"She went off with the Viscomte."

"Where are they now?"

"No one knows. It was all highly secretive," said Annamarie, in tones that suggested she disapproved, when in fact she found it thrilling.

"And this Opera Ghost of yours— I suppose he was never heard from again?"

"No, Margaret— but only because the Opera House has been unused. I do not blame the managers for leaving it, though it must have been quite a loss, financially— everyone says it is haunted."

"Hmm," said Margaret thoughtfully. "How do you know he is not still there, if indeed he ever existed?"

"He must be dead, Margaret!" said Gravette.

"Really? must he? How long ago was this fiasco of which you speak?"

"Long ago," said Gravette rapturously. "Long, long ages ago."

"It has not been above two years," corrected Lucille.

"Are you sure? No, it cannot be that short a time, I am sure—"

"Two years," Lucille repeated firmly.

"Ah, then I pose my question again," said Margaret. "How can you be sure that he is not still there?"

The other three glanced at each other but returned no reply.

Margaret smiled. "Then let us find out!"

She advanced towards the Opera Populaire, going several feet before she realized she was alone. She turned back to her companions.

"Come, come, madames, we are census takers— we have an obligation to the city. We get paid fifty francs a month for this, and I would like to earn my wages. Come along."

The three Frenchwomen shook their heads. Margaret looked at them beseechingly.

"Mademoiselle Blessing," said Lucille slowly, "I would not set foot in that building for a thousand francs a month. Indeed, no amount of money could induce me."

Try as Margaret might, nothing she could say would convince them otherwise, and eventually she was forced to give up.

"Very well. I shall just have to go in myself." The horror on the madames' faces was so acute that she laughed. "Honestly, and I thought we Irish were superstitious. Madames, likely the ghost of which you are so frightened never existed— I know an invented tale when I hear one— and if he did, he has surely moved on by now. What reason should a man have for staying in the basement of a deserted Opera House?"

"I tell you again, he is mad," said Annamarie gloomily. "Madmen have no use for reason, except as amusement."

Margaret only laughed and continued on her way. "The day is almost done," she called back. 'I will go to see if this opera is inhabited, and then I shall go home with a clean conscience, for my work shall have been fully accomplished. Think on it, madames— can you say the same?"

She disappeared into the shadows at the side of the Opera House, the three ladies gazing after her with worry in their eyes. Clearly their consciences bothered them, but not enough, it seemed, to go after her.

After a time, Annamarie spoke.

"No doubt she will show up for work tomorrow with some invented tale of how she was nearly caught by the Opera Ghost, and managed to evade him with her Irish cleverness."

"No doubt," said Gravette agreeably.

Lucille said nothing, only watched the Opera House with her suspicious eyes.

It gazed back with empty windows, as if protesting its innocence.

It wasn't till after the three Frenchwomen left that something stirred in the shadows.


	3. Footsteps of a Phantom

Chapter Three: Footsteps of a Phantom

Truth be told, Margaret herself was not entirely easy as she walked into the still side foyer of the Opera House. New as she was in town, however, she felt compelled to make an impression on the few people of her acquaintance— having only been in Paris a short time, her co-workers were the only ones she saw on a regular basis. Thus her headstrong actions in entering the abandoned Opera Populaire.

Foolish of her, perhaps, she thought. _Why must I seek to prove myself to strangers?_

There was a noise somewhere above her and she whirled around, staring frantically into the shadows above, but it was only a pigeon in the burnt and haggard roof-beams, fluttering in the gloom. With difficulty she managed to bring her breathing back under control and focus again on the destruction that surrounded her.

No doubt about it, the Opera House had been ruined, mangled as though shaken in the jaws of a beast, turned from an undoubtedly lovely piece of architecture into a sad and melancholy wreck of a building. All this from the actions of one man, she thought— how angry he must have been to cause this.

Or— perhaps this was all unintended—?

How terrible to know that people had died, millions of dollars been lost, as a result of your actions—

She shook herself and continued walking in. She did not really believe in the legend of the Opera Ghost— legend. Hah! Back in Ireland, stories had to be passed down for generations before they became legends. Here in France, they seemed to be born overnight.

Another sound caused her to whirl in fright— this time it appeared to be a rat. Margaret made a small face of disgust and continued on.

She spoke to herself to override her escalating fears.

"If he is not here, this Opera Ghost— perhaps I should try back later. He may be out to lunch— or perhaps doing some shopping—" She succeeded, but just barely, in making herself smile. "What a picture that would be— a horrific monster in a mask, out amongst the crowds at the street market—"

A new and different sound came from behind her. Having been unnecessarily frightened by two ultimately harmless sounds already, she was not so ready to take fright at this, and did not turn around to determine the cause. It could not possibly be what it sounded like, after all— there had been a bird, there had been a rat, but only one thing could make a sound like that—

Footsteps.

The footsteps of a human being, a man, creeping along behind her, keeping himself nearly silent—

The hair on the back of her neck began to raise.

_Foolish girl! _taunted her conscience._ If it is another pigeon you will have been made a fool of, in taking fright. If it is the Opera Ghost you will have made a fool of yourself, in choosing to come here. Fool, fool, fool, either way— _

As Margaret knew from experience, the only way to make her conscience shut up was to face her fears.

And so she turned, eyes wide and searching, hand up ready to defend herself—

And there was nothing there.

For a moment she stood, tensed and alert, looking into the shadows at the corner of the room. She had reached the grand foyer now, with its two horse-shoe shaped staircases. These too were rotted and burnt, so she would have feared to step on them in case they wouldn't hold her weight. Now as she looked behind her, back towards the entrance, there came the sound of a footstep on the stairs—

Once again, when she looked, there was nothing there.

Never once in her life had Maggie Blessing thought she was going mad. Never once— before today. Now she stood, quivering and afraid to move, utterly at the mercy of whatever presence lurked here, be it man, beast, or spirit—

_No! I will be at no-one's mercy!_

She was shaking all over, but she clenched her fists and made herself take a step forwards, towards the stairs— then another— She reached the stairs after what seemed an eternity.

_Anyone else would have turned back by now. Congratulations— you are a fool indeed, but a brave fool._

She smiled grimly to herself and began to ascend the stairs. They creaked alarmingly under her feet, but she made it up them, stepping as lightly as possible, trying to distribute her weight evenly. The ominous creaks and groans continued, but she went up the second staircase as well— if you were going to do something idiotic, she reasoned, you might as well do it right.

She emerged through the arched doorways into a balcony overlooking the auditorium. The small sign on the side of it nearly escaped her notice—

_Box 5_

She stood in awe of the destruction in front of her— there was something grand in it, though terribly sad at the same time. The abandoned carcass of the shattered chandelier still lay in the centre of the room, a sad hulk that had brought death to a few and horrific memories to many. The stage was half-burnt, holes showing in the once-fine timber— it looked ready to collapse should someone walk onto it—

A figure stood there.

Clothed in black—

Hooded and cloaked in darkness—

Margaret's breath caught in her throat; she felt her heart stop and her hand flew to her throat; if the figure were to move, she knew she would die of fright.

It did not move.

She stared at it.

It stood still, no evidence of life showing anywhere.

Eventually she started to breathe again; her heart took up its normal rhythm. She decided it must be a prop of some kind, left there from the last show, two years ago— surely it was coincidence that, from this distance, it looked like a man— a trick of her eyes.

She would go down and find out.

She gasped in breath once more, to reassure herself that she was still breathing, and turned to go down the stairs. It was another harrowing trip, as the wood of the steps complained groaningly— but she made it, stopping on the landing to turn into the main, arched doorway that led into the auditorium on the ground floor.

She stepped through the door and found herself in the midst of the destruction— here the fire had done its worst. Charred wood and heaps of ashes surrounded her everywhere. Maggie swallowed hard, past the lump in her throat, then walked forward, towards the stage.

It took her some time to negotiate a way through the debris, past the mangled seats, and then skirting around the ruined chandelier. As she made it around, her eyes turned at once to the figure she had seen on the stage from the balcony—

It was not there.

Once again her heart began to pound, and she hugged her arms together in a desperate attempt to protect herself. Her eyes widened— _there was no way_—

There was no support under the stage, she could see that now. There was no way the wood would hold up the weight of a human body—

Now was the time to abandon her foolish bravery and run for the exit.

And run she did, her feet pounding on the ravaged ground, heart thumping wildly in her chest, breath coming shorter and shorter until it seemed she did not breathe for minutes at a time. She ran back up through the auditorium, and out onto the landing of the stairways—

Suddenly the floor gave way beneath her and she fell, plummeting for a long ways, like Alice down the rabbit hole.

She was in a faint when she landed, and did not wake for a time, though she was not aware of this. When at last her eyes opened she saw only that she lay on a soft, cold bed, covered by draperies that made her feel desperately claustrophobic. She clawed them out of the way, weak as she was, and then stopped dead at the sight that met her eyes.

It was a man.

His face looked gaunt and hollow— he had been handsome once—

He wore black, all black, a black cloak clutched around him as tight as a raven's wing.

His mask, too, was black.

He looked like he was in mourning for the death of a lifetime.


	4. The Punishment For Trespassers

Chapter Four: The Punishment for Trespassers

For what seemed an eternity, Maggie's breath remained caught in her throat, along with her heart. The man simply stared at her, choosing not to move or acknowledge her awakening with words or actions.

She took him in, gradually.

Black, all black— clothes, hair, mask— all except his eyes, which were a bewitching colour somewhere between green and blue. Maggie stared at those eyes for some time till she came back to herself with a shudder. She had drowned in them, however briefly.

The mask, the presence of this man here in the abandoned Opera Populaire, all spoke of his being the infamous Phantom of the Opera. In her normal state of mind, Margaret would most likely have questioned him on this; however, as matters stood she was not ready to do anything that might make him angry.

_If I speak, will words come out?_

She tried to say something. Only silence.

In a frantic panic she thought he had stolen her voice from her, and the next sounds that reached her ears were a series of her own screams.

At this, the phantom condescended to move.

He winced, which clinched it as far as Maggie was concerned— ghosts did not need to wince at a harsh noise. Clearly he was a man. And if a man she need not be afraid of him.

The faults in her reasoning were plain to her, but she chose to ignore them and instead ceased screaming and sat up. Immediately her head began to pound— a wave of dizziness swept over her and her stomach churned.

He spoke.

"Lie back down," he said.

His voice was harsh, but beautiful still— underneath the half-mask his face, though gaunt and at the moment, irritated, was elegantly planed and unlined by age. He was perhaps forty, most likely less— Margaret lay back down and contemplated him.

He stayed where he was and contemplated her.

At last she spoke.

"We cannot both simply stay here and stare at each other," she said, surprised at the strength of her own voice. "Clearly, one of us must speak. Will you tell me what happened? It is all a bit of a blur, I'm afraid."

"You fell," said the man shortly.

"Yes, I remember that bit— what happened after?"

"You struck your head on a stone, and passed out. I retrieved you and carried you here to await your eventual recovery."

"I thank you for saving me, kind sir—"

"I am not kind. I did not do it for you." His voice was brusque still, and he turned away from her for a moment, only to turn back as she tried again to sit up. "Lie still!"

It was clearly a command and Margaret could not help but obey. Her head was hurting her, anyway.

"What do you mean, you did not do it for me?"

"I intended to interrogate you as soon as you revived— I wish, I demand to know what you are doing in my opera house."

"Your opera house?" she repeated.

He made a brief gesture of irritation with his hands. "Yes, madame, my opera house. It has been in my possession and protection for many years— and only two years ago I took sole ownership of the building." His voice mocked her— it knew that she must be fully cognizant of the opera house's present condition. "I live here, madame, and I wish to know what you think you are playing at, trespassing on my property."

She pushed herself up to support herself on her elbows, one hand going to her forehead at the throbbing pain. She gritted her teeth. "I find it rather hard to concentrate, monsieur, but I do wonder— you are the Opera Ghost, then?"

In a fluid movement that spoke of rhythms only he could hear, he stood and swept her an elaborate bow.

"The same, madame."

"Mademoiselle, if you please."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, monsieur." She twisted the ring on her fourth finger on her left hand so the stone faced her palm. "I am not married."

"Welcome news indeed," he said. He mocked her still, and she blushed hotly.

"To answer your question, I am a census taker, hired by the city of Paris to enumerate the population and describe their occupations and the condition of their homes. I was with my companions, co-workers, three other respectable women, and I separated to come here and find if anyone lived here still." She bit her lip— mentioning her separation was most likely not a good idea. However, she reasoned, if he had been watching her from her entrance, as he almost certainly had been, he would know of it anyhow.

He nodded slowly, his face a study of abstraction. "Had you not heard that the Opera Populaire was haunted, then? That all who enter are doomed to die within a week?"

The look he turned on her was so diabolical that for a moment her breath caught. Then the very smallest spark in his eyes showed, and she let out her breath.

"I believe you invented that this moment," she said.

He tilted his head.

"We shall see," he said quietly, and looked at her thoughtfully. "A census taker, you say."

"Aye, monsieur."

"No doubt you have been to many houses in the city."

"Aye."

"Hmm." He appeared to muse on this a great deal, but when he spoke again it was on a different subject. "You are not from Paris? Your accent is unusual."

"I am Irish, sir. Recently come."

"Ah. The Irish. I should perhaps have realized—" He gestured at her flame-red hair. She suddenly realized that it must look a mess, and began to pat at it ineffectually. He observed her efforts for a moment with a definite smirk on his lips.

Her fear of him lessened a bit. Any man who would betray his sense of humour so early in conversation with a stranger could not be entirely bad.

"Tell me, have you family here in Paris?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Many relatives?"

"No, monsieur, only my brother— he is two years older than me."

"Ah. And is this Irish brother of yours a census taker as well?"

"No, monsieur, he is—" She hesitated a moment. "An invalid."

The man— she forced herself to stop thinking of him as the phantom— nodded slowly. "In one of the better hospitals, I hope."

"No, sir, he is confined to home." She bit her lip and hoped he would not ask more— she did not want his pity, and also did not feel up to explaining the curious circumstances of her brother to a perfect stranger. And one who lived five basements under an opera house, at that.

The man in black was silent for so long that she finally ventured, "Monsieur, I would like to go home, now."

His head snapped up and he glared at her. "Your head—"

"It is feeling much better now."

"Your injury is more severe than you realize, mademoiselle. I cannot allow you to leave in your condition."

She sat all the way up, clenching her jaw at the waves of pain. "I must, monsieur. I am needed at home— it is getting dark—"

He stood and made to push her back down. "You are not going to leave."

Fear shot back into her as he grasped her arms— his touch was ice-cold.

"You cannot keep me here!"

To her amazement, a smile twisted his lips. It was little more than a grimace, however, and did nothing to allay her fear.

"We have been chatting most amiably, mademoiselle, up till now," he said softly. "But the fact remains that you have trespassed on my domain, entering my home without my permission. And I am afraid that your punishment is to remain here—"

She began to fight his grasp now, bucking under his hands. He was strong, though, and controlled her without much effort.

"Remain here until I decide what you are useful for." She stopped still, transfixed by his eyes, her skin crawling at the sensation of his breath in her face. His eyes filled her vision and overwhelmed her.

"Pray to God that I find you are useful for something," he whispered.


	5. No Dreams Within

Chapter Five: No Dreams Within

Christine arrived home from her excursion to town to find the house silent, and frightening in the feeling of watchful unrest that pervaded it.

She was not surprised to find it apparently empty, for it was the servants' day off, all except her maid Maire, who would most likely be in the garden— and Raoul was off on a business trip. His father had died recently and he was still overseeing the dispertion of the extensive de Chagny holdings. Apart from the beautiful home they kept in the small town in which they lived, there was the summer home by the sea, and the mansion in England, as well as Gerarde de Chagny's home on the outskirts of Paris and miscellaneous smaller houses in various countries and towns. Raoul had decided to sell some of these off, and was interacting with a few prospective buyers, leaving his wife alone for the week, until he returned.

She loved the home she lived in now— they had come there only the last year, after the death of Raoul's father. Before that—

As she thought about where they had been before that, a small and secretive smile of utter delight filled her face.

Her first home.

Her father's house.

Raoul's wedding present to her— he had bought the house in which she had been born, and they had spent their wedding night in the room in which she had been conceived.

Raoul's thoughtfulness to her— his tenderness and attentiveness left nothing to be desired. As Christine walked through the rooms of the house, she found her mind returning to the words of a song she had once sung before a large audience in Paris—

_No thoughts within her head, but thoughts of joy_

_No dreams within her mind but dreams of love— _

She arrived at her bedroom, still clutching the flowers she had bought in the marketplace, and stepped onto the hard flagstone floor.

At the sight which met her eyes, the bouquet slipped from her nerveless grasp and fell to the ground.

Blood.

The entire room was awash with it.

She'd never seen red that color— crimson, fire, vermilion, scarlet, all words that could reach for the true meaning but fail to achieve it. This was true red— the red of death. A color she had not seen for so long—

_Red Death— _

_He_ had stood before them two years ago, having given them his life's achievement, in the form of angry notes of music and words about passion. All on paper in his spidery hand— paper which had subsequently burned—

He had stood before _her_—

His clothes, his eyes had burned with the red that she saw now.

She had burned in his gaze.

Raoul lay dead on the bed, his body emptied and desiccated, his blood on the bed, on the floors, on the walls. His mistress lay beside him, dead also, her mouth and eyes still frozen in a mask of horror.

A mask—

He stood before her now.

His mask was gone, but he wore red still. His swordblade was stained with it.

He bowed— he saluted her with the sword, holding it straight and bringing his hand to his forehead.

"My lady," he said.

Christine could only look at the bodies of her murdered husband, and his lover.

Erik caught her chin in his blood-stained hand, turning her face back to his.

"_I have returned to you— for you—"_

Christine awoke, sitting up immediately, her chest heaving, tears running down her face. A dream.

Another nightmare.

They were getting worse.

He was coming for her.


	6. You Have My Word

**A/N: Its been asked which version I'm using for my Erik. Its the Gerard Butler one, except with a little more darkness from the Leroux original mixed in. Thanks for all the reviews, keep it up!**

**Chapter Six: You Have My Word**

Locked inside the small room with no windows and only a candle for light, Maggie lost all track of time. It could have been hours or it could have been days that she sat there alone, first crying and raging at the unmoveable door, then sinking back onto the bed, tired out. Even in her exhaustion tears continued to seep their slow way down her cheeks— she curled up on the bed with her arms hugging her middle, her head at first on the pillow— when she discovered that it smelled faintly of some unidentifiable perfume she pushed it away and lay her head on the coverlet instead.

Perfume—

She was not the first woman to be down here, then. She was not the first to be imprisoned in this dim, cold chamber.

No—

Even as she looked about her, she could see the attention to details that meant she was not the first female to enter the Opera Ghost's sanctuary. The vanity desk against the wall next to her held a small hand mirror and a set of silver-backed brushes and combs. Succumbing to her curiousity, she went to them and picked them up— they were heavy, the carving on the handles unworn. She could almost think them completely unused—

Her eyes focused on the dark brown hairs caught in the brush.

That singer— that Christine Daae— was this her hair? Had she held this brush in her own small hands, had she lain on the bed, sobbing for freedom?

Maggie put the brush down with a clatter and crept back to the bed.

No-one knew what happened to that Christine Daae—

Had she truly escaped the Ghost's grasp?

It did not bear thinking about, and so Margaret put it out of her mind, seating herself on the bed once more and folding her arms. She found her gaze drawn to the curiously-shaped urn on the corner of the vanity— it contained roses, dried and blackened.

The roses were the last thing she saw as she finally went to sleep.

When the knock on the door came, it was gentle, and she did not hear it.

The door opened, silently, without any of the groaning noises that naturally come with aged wood and unoiled hinges. A face looked in at her.

His eyes, normally so hard, so ungiving, softened slightly as he looked at her, lying asleep on the bed. His lips twitched in a near-smile as she gave a slight snore.

"After all," he murmured, "if curiousity has been your only sin—"

He did not finish the thought. No one on earth had only one sin.

The softness in his eyes disappeared as if by magic and he slipped into the room, taking care to leave the door open. He strode to her side and grasped her arm.

It was a rude awakening. Maggie had been drifting in a dream of swimming in the river that ran alongside her childhood home, her brother there with her, smiling— she awoke suddenly to find the Opera Ghost standing over her, his hand on her, his eyes direct and his grip curiously impersonal.

She gasped before she could help herself, scrambled into a sitting position and flung his hand away from her.

"I have decided what you are useful for," he informed her, amusement glinting in his eyes. "You say you are a census taker and have access to city records."

"Aye, monsieur." She nodded, her eyes huge in her pinched face, watching him as one would a coiled snake.

"Good," he said. His voice was silky. "Then you will assist me in finding an— acquaintance of mine. She has— we have been— out of touch for some time. I do not know where she may be, though I am reasonably certain she remains in France. You could find her?"

"I could, monsieur, but— it would take time, and a great deal of work—"

"Do not worry about it. I will pay you for your time, and your work. I will pay quite handsomely— I can afford to be generous to one who assists me in this matter."

"But— it is Christine Daae you want to find, isn't it?"

His head shot up and his eyes pierced her. "What do you know of Christine Daae?" he demanded harshly.

Maggie shrank back a little, against the headboard. "I know nothing but what I have been told," she said.

"And what have you been told? Answer me, mademoiselle."

"Only that you and she— you were—" Maggie faltered, at a loss. What words did one use to repeat a personal history back to the one who had endured it— especially when all you know is the gossip account of old women? "I only know what you were to each other," she finished lamely, wincing at the effect these words had on him. He stood in a fluid motion and whirled away from her, anger twisting his mouth unbelievably, distorting his voice as he spoke.

"_No one _knew what we were to each other!" he hissed. "I doubt if even _she_ dreamed— well, she dreams now, I know it. She knows I am here still, she knows I did not just crawl off and die because she left me— she knows I will come for her—"

Margaret bit her lip and tried to stop trembling. What power was in the man she saw before her— how easily he could kill her if he wished. His hands went to the urn with the roses on the vanity and she tensed, expecting him to break it in his anger—

Instead he caressed it with his fingers, lightly, brushing the pads of his fingertips over the etched, baked clay. The vessel was old, with many rough edges, and when his finger caught on one, the skin pierced, Maggie winced for him— but he merely lifted his hand off the urn to keep the blood off, and looked at his cut finger for a moment impassively.

"It amazes me that I bleed still," he said quietly. "And that I breathe. I should have died when she left, but even that was denied me— I should have died."

Margaret could do nothing but stare at him. If it were anyone else she might have dared to go to him, the heartbreak in his voice was so apparent, the need for comfort plain.

But it _was_ him.

She did not dare.

For a long moment of time they stayed still, almost unable to move. From Maggie's point of view it looked as though his lips were moving in a silent prayer.

But when he turned to her his mouth was set and stubborn, and she concluded that it must have been a trick of her vision.

"You will help me find Christine," he said. "It has been long since I have seen her— I must be with her once again."

Maggie did nothing. He came closer to her.

"Please understand me," he said quietly. "This is the only way I will set you free— if I have your word that you will earnestly endeavor to search for Christine Daae, make all effort necessary and possible. Your word that you will come back here and meet with me, and let me know of your progress. At least once a week— preferably more often. Your word, mademoiselle— all that stands between you and freedom is your honor."

She let out a long and shuddering breath.

"You have my word," she said.

He peered at her keenly for a moment before apparently deciding that she meant it, then offered her his hand to help her off the bed. She hesitated, then took it, allowing him to assist as she stood up. Her knees were weak from lying down— she must have been there longer than she suspected.

"And now I will play for you, before you leave," he said pleasantly.

"Please, I—"

"Come, it is the least I can do to thank you for bearing with me and my terrible fits of temper. Come."

He led her into the main room, where there was a magnificent organ against one wall, and seated her on a divan a little ways away from it.

"It is best to listen from a slight distance," he told her, "in order to allow the full resonance to reach you. Kindly be patient."

Leaving her there, he went and sat down at the organ, tensing his fingers over the keys before lowering them, in a repetition of the soft touch he had used on the urn some minutes ago, brushing the ivory keys lightly. As he began to play, Maggie sat up straighter and straighter, her eyes drifting from their focus on the exit, till her gaze was fixed on him.

The music inspired her, picked her up and flew with her, threw her away in a spinning, dizzying tilt. Loss of gravity— tone of voice— demons calling her— angels weeping for her—

She stared at the Opera Ghost's back, clothed in a black suit coat.

_Magnificent man, to play so boldly!_

Even as her mind left her in the unholy glory of the music, she knew she was lost, captivated, and finally captured.

He reached the end far, far too soon for her liking, and sat for a moment more, hunched over the keys. Then he stood and turned to her, extending a hand to lead her towards the exit.

Suddenly she did not want to go. And a week was too long to be gone.

"Will you play for me when I come back?" she asked. She was too anxious to keep her voice as studiously meek and modest as she had before— she rammed the question home, squeezing his hand in hers.

He smiled, patiently. "Of course I will," he said. "And I will see you—"

The unspoken question hung in the air.

"Give me two days," she said.

He smiled and nodded graciously, and led her to a gondola that reposed on the lake. She hadn't noticed it before and a body of water lying casually five stories beneath the ground would have taken her breath away— had she not been focusing on the man who held her hand, and now her mind, in his uncompromising grasp.

He handed her into the small boat, stepped in after her and began to pole them towards the exit.

A thought struck her suddenly.

"Oh!"she said. "I have not told you my name!"

"Indeed, you have not."

"It is Margaret— Margaret Blessing."

"A fine Irish name," he said, gently. He poled them along, seemingly without effort.

"And— what is yours?" she ventured at last.

A small smile quirked the corners of his mouth.

"My name," he said, "is Erik."

"Erik," said Maggie to herself, quietly. And repeated it, "_Erik_—" as the boat went its smooth way along the water, taking her back towards the surface and her freedom in the sunlight.


	7. The Precipice

**A/N: I just want to apologize for how short these chapters are— I'm finding that angst and horror is a lot harder to sustain than humour and randomness. So sorry. Keep reading though. And reviewing! Thanks.**

**Chapter Seven: The Precipice**

Maggie stumbled through the door into the sunlight, her mind still dazed by the dark, and the power of Erik's voice in her head. The street outside the ruined Opera House was not busy, something she was grateful for, but she collected a few stares from the passers-by. Catching her breath, she steadied herself against a lamppost and ignored the curious glances of a man who came up to her.

"Can I help you, Madame?"

"Mademoiselle," she gasped automatically. She put a hand to her throat and felt the wild fluttering of her pulse. It was the combination of shock from everything that had happened, and the music that wound about her soul, and the fact that as she had left him, he gripped her arm and stared into her eyes.

"_You will come back to me."_

"_I will_," she had faltered.

"_Swear to me."_

"_I swear on my life_."

Her hand drifted down to her upper arm, where his fingers had left bruises on her skin. He had a grip like death.

"Mademoiselle?" The kindly face of the man who spoke to her drifted back into her vision. He was in his fifties and wore a grey Van Dyke beard and a solicitous expression. " May I assist you in some manner?"

Sunlight—

There shouldn't be sunlight. She had entered the Opera House in the late afternoon. How long has she been down there?

"Monsieur— please— what day is it?"

He looked somewhat surprised at this. "The fourteenth of March, Mademoiselle."

She couldn't remember the date she had gone in. She wasn't good with numbers. It was ironic in the extreme that she counted things for a living. "No, the day of the week, if you please."

She had gone in on— on a Wednesday, that was it, Wednesday.

"Why, it is Friday, mademoiselle," said the kindly gentleman in some surprise.

"Friday! And tell me, monsieur, is it late?"

"No, mademoiselle, it is quite early. It is—" he checked his watch. "Eight forty five in the morning, to be precise."

Two days she'd been gone! And Bram left home all on his own—

The kindly gentlemen was somewhat surprised to find his arm taken in a desperate grip.

"A hansom cab," cried Maggie. "A hansom, if you please, monsieur—"

"Of course I would be happy to assist, Mademoiselle, in any way—"

"Right away, monsieur, if you please."

"But—"

"Now, monsieur, I beg of you."

In some bewilderment, he located a hansom cab and handed her into it. She shouted to the driver to go at once and that was the last she saw of the kindly old gentleman.

She sank back onto the sparse cushions of the hansom, one hand on her forehead. Her head was pounding— two days! Bram had been alone for two days! And she had only two days in which to come back with results—

She sat bolt upright. Suddenly the fog that the music had wound around her mind was gone. She felt herself suddenly a cynic again, perpetually disappointed. How could she possibly locate this Christine Daae in two days? It couldn't be done.

It had to be done.

Even with her mind suddenly, wonderfully clear, all she wanted was to be back in the lair of the Phantom of the Opera, back in the hole in which Erik existed, listening to him play.

_Down there—_

Down underneath the ground, he sat on the organ bench, fingers poised over the keys.

His lips twisted in a smile.

He had not smiled in a very long time. There had been no reason.

Perhaps there wasn't truly a reason now, either— but his sense of optimism, stunted and dormant, suddenly asserted itself. How brilliant of him, to catch that woman in his web, and spin her as he wanted, dangle her over the precipice—

That's what the music was. A precipice. And you would lose your sanity into it if you did not keep careful hold on it.

_He_ certainly had.

But now his madman's mind was reeling with a peculiar sense of joy. Christine suddenly seemed within his grasp again.

After all this time—

Lowering his fingers to the keys, he began to play.


	8. Searching

Chapter Eight: Searching

It was nine the next morning when Maggie entered the Hall of Records. She steeled herself for some strange looks, knowing full well that she could not truthfully account for her absence from work the past two days, but thankfully her co-workers were not there, and the Coordination Overseer, an older man with a definite and indisputable scowl which was not easily displaced, appeared to be out. The doorman gave her a cheerful wave, and Madame Charet from the Births Department a distant nod, but other than that she was entirely disregarded.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she hurried along the corridors, headed for the Record Library. But she knew that it could not be avoided indefinitely— and what was she to say when Monsieur Assan requested an explanation? Obviously the truth would not work. It would not only call her sanity into question, but also would not satisfy the Coordination Overseer. Being kidnapped by a legendary ghost was not a valid excuse for failing to fulfill one's obligation to the city.

She sighed harshly. _After all, it isn't my city— _

_Please, Monsieur Assan, I went into the Opera House and I saw something and went to investigate and the floor opened up underneath me and there was a man all in black, and he trapped me there and played the organ for me._

It didn't sound sane or rational even to her, and she knew quite well it had happened. Oh, to be sure, for some time after she had finally arrived home she had wondered— was it possible, at all possible, that, with everything that had been going on, she had simply— lost it? For a time, anyway, regardless of whether or not she had indeed come back to her senses.

But as she undressed to take her cold bath last night, the yellow and blue bruises on her arms were proof of her sanity. Proof which, even this morning, she was ridiculously grateful for.

_Sanity is so precious, now— _

She reached the Record Library and began to move among the rows of tall cabinets, each one lined with hundreds of small drawers. Several of them were empty, waiting to be filled. The census that year was more extensive than ever before, and for once the poorer sections of the city were not ignored, and the richer sections were forced to account for themselves. There, in the back of the room, would be records that had not yet been updated or replaced—

Records from the census of last year—

Reaching them, she hesitated for a moment before lifting her hand to a drawer marked with an ornate D.

De Chagny.

He had told her, Erik had, as she stood there swaying, half-blinded by his music, her mental faculties impaired almost beyond bearing. He had come quite close to her, his eyes filling her vision and burning marks on her soul, his hands reaching to grip her shoulders.

"_De Chagny— the boy was called. Raoul de Chagny. A Vicomte, mademoiselle."_

"_Vicomte de Chagny_," she had repeated, as if by rote, unable to tear her eyes away from his.

"_Raoul,_" he hissed between his teeth, in a voice of such venom that she was afraid to repeat the name, afraid she would be punished for it.

She merely nodded, slightly.

He breathed heavily and relaxed his grip on her shoulders.

"_I trust you will be able to find them speedily, mademoiselle."_

"_Soon,_" she said. "_Yes. Trust me."_

Now, she pulled out the drawer and began to rifle through the papers. A vicomte should be in a different place, the titled citizens were separate from the rest of society in the records as well as everything else— but she had gotten the rest of the story from Bram, when she got home. He had told her all he'd heard of the infamous Phantom of the Opera—

If Raoul and Christine had been so afraid that he would follow him, and if they had indeed still been part of the census, it was extremely unlikely that they would have given themselves away as a Vicomte and Viscountess, if it was at all possible to hide it. Fear did powerful things to people— it was a great deterrent to pride.

"Would they still be around here, Bram?"

Bram had sat up in bed, his blue eyes burning in his pale face, auburn hair falling over his brow. "I don't know, Maggie— possible, I suppose. It's hard to give up the city of one's birth. But they wouldn't be registered under his title, that is for certain." He went on to tell her why.

She sat and looked at him for a time, shaking her head slightly.

"How do you know all this?"

A crooked smile illuminated his face for a moment. "I am a story-teller, Maggie, and people know it. They come, they give me the facts, the bare bones— they leave me to breathe life into their words, to give their tales flesh and the weight of reality."

"Gregoire told you?" Gregoire was the older man who lived in the flat beneath them.

"I have a great many informants," he said, making a half-mocking attempt at secrecy and importance. "And Gregoire happens to be one of them, yes." For a moment his smile faded and his eyes grew faraway. "When he held you trapped, Maggie, this man— did he speak of his love for the singer?"

Very few people had names, for Bram. He saw, in the course of history, the endless repetitions of the same archetypes, over and over. They were the Tragic Lover, the Bard and the Poet, the King, the Jester, the Entertainer, amongst others. Margaret had asked him, once, which she was. He had thought about it for a great while and then answered that he honestly did not know.

"He—" she said, and hesitated. "When he spoke of Christine Daae, he— he spoke, not of love— but _with_ love. Great, burning, wrathful love."

She did not think it was much of a reply, but evidently it satisfied Bram perfectly well. He lay back on the pillows and smiled once more.

"I shall tell you sometime of the great love he has for this woman. But not now. Not now. Maggie—"

She had leaned forward to blow out the candle, but paused and turned to her brother.

He whispered, his well-cut lips dry and tentative even as they smiled.

"I am glad you are going to help him."

She smiled back. "I am glad that you're glad."

"You will look for her tomorrow?"

"I shall."

"Good. Maggie."

"Yes, Abraham."

"I am glad you came back—"

Maggie blew out the candle and stood up. Light came in through the window and illuminated the bed as she smoothed the ragged sheet over the stumps of his legs.

"So am I," she said quietly.


	9. A Chasm Into Oblivion

**A/N: A slightly longer chapter this time. Hope you enjoy it. I'm still working out plot (hey, a plot, that's novel) so I may have to go back and change a few things later on. Please review! Thanks.**

**Chapter Nine: A Chasm Into Oblivion**

It was not there.

She had searched all day yesterday, finally stopping an hour after lamps were lit, to go home and take care of Bram. He was quiet and watchful after a day spent in isolation, and she cursed the Opera Ghost for keeping her from her family needlessly.

But the next morning she had come again, arriving even earlier, skittering through the halls as quickly as possible. She had promised to come back. And even though the spell that bound her seemed to have faded as the music left her ears and she returned to sunlight, she could not betray him like that. It seemed that half her soul was chained to his, and she would be his slave for as long as he chose to keep her.

Maggie's mind rebelled against the thought, the decidedly rational part of her rejecting it— it wasn't possible to enthrall a human like this.

But she believed in wizards and faeries, the lore of her home country deeply ingrained. You cannot practice magic and music both at one time— but music has a magic of its own.

And so she found herself once more in the Hall of Records, searching, her fingers gathering paper cuts, her hair gathering dust, her eyes strained in the dim light from the window, names flitting by in front of her. She wasn't capable of recognizing any of them but the one she looked for, and it was not there.

She reached the last drawer and the last slip of paper and sat suddenly on the ground, sobbing. Her actions had grown more frantic as she approached the end, and now she wept in pent-up frustration and, impossibly, a fear of disappointing the Opera Ghost. She had tried, she had done everything she could—

How would she tell him? She must return to him, she could not avoid it, but how was she to tell him that she had failed?

Maggie was not used to failing. At anything. And as she sat, forehead against the cupboard, tears running down her dusty face, she gritted her teeth and decided she would not. Failure, defeat, these were foreign concepts to her and, by God, if she had anything to say about it, they would remain so.

She sat there for a while longer, however, feeling utterly worn out, and felt despair circling her like a carrion bird. She shook her head, and turned towards the window, and light shone suddenly in her eyes.

_It's hard to give up the city of one's birth— _

She sat up and stared in slowly-growing excitement at thin air. Bram's words, they had been. It is hard to give up the city of one's birth, and it is even harder to return to it after being long elsewhere. But if one is sufficiently prepared to swallow pride, it can be managed.

And Christine Daae had not been born in France.

Margaret shoved herself to her feet and ran down the corridor, destination firmly in mind.

Some time later, a large envelope in her hand, she rushed into her flat, into Bram's bedroom, and planted a kiss on his forehead, giving him a smile.

He smiled back at her, and took in the sight of the envelope.

"You found her, then?"

"I believe I have," she said, quietly. "It was you who gave me the clue, Bram— bless you, brother."

"Bless me, sister," he said, the smile growing wider.

She kissed his forehead again and took his hand. "I am going back to him now."

"That is right, Maggie. I am glad. I would like to meet him some time, you know."

"I don't think that would happen."

"Regardless. I would like to."

"I will tell Gregoire to check on you."

"You needn't. The Opera Ghost will not detain you this time."

She shook her head. "There's no way to be sure."

"I am sure," said Bram serenely.

She laughed at him, and patted his hand. "I will tell Gregoire anyway. And I will be back as soon as I can."

"Oh, take your time, sister— Felicity has promised to come and entertain me."

She laughed again at the sight of his crooked smile, and left.

She rushed along the city streets with almost unseemly haste. It was growing late in the afternoon, and she resolved to have the interview over as soon as possible, so that she might get back to Bram—

If he would let her go.

He must let her go.

She found herself at the door of the Opera Populaire and swallowed hard, mustering courage and strength to push the entrance open.

The inside was as she remembered, covered in a thick layer of dust and immensely sad. She walked through it with shaky steps, noting that there only the tracks of her first time venturing in, several days ago, marred the dust. He did not leave, then. Did he not eat? Had he no need or desire for sunlight and fresh air?

He must have another way in, she reflected. The thought cheered her, for some strange reason— after thinking about it for a moment more she realized it was because it humanized Erik somewhat— he could not walk through walls any more than she could. He obeyed the same invisible laws of the universe as everyone else.

On top of which, if she was trapped again—

If there was another exit, she would find it. Never mind that the lair beyond the lake was a labyrinth of tunnels. She had a good sense of direction which had seen her through many errors in judgement while touring the Paris streets.

The tiny voice of rationalism in the back of her mind nagged that _a good sense of direction _wouldn't, in all reality, be that much help.

She ignored it, pushed it ruthlessly away, and walked on. She would have to find another way down to Erik, being entirely, and understandably, unwilling to jump back through the hole in the landing which, she now discovered, was still gaping open. She had dropped her pocketbook as she fell— she pounced on it and picked it up, then knelt by the hole and gazed in.

It was pitch black. She could see nothing beyond a few feet below her, but it looked like a chasm into oblivion.

A voice whispered in her ear.

"Don't fall in."

She shrieked and lurched away; her knees slipped on the smooth floor of the landing and she fell over the edge, her hands scrabbling at nothing, eyes wide and frantic, her last breath shoved from her lungs as she called her brother's name in her panic.

Hands clamped onto her shoulders, fingers dug deep into her flesh, and he pulled her up over the edge, dragging her a few feet away from hole as though afraid she would dive back in again. She lay on her stomach for a second, panting, choking slightly on the dust that layered the inside of her throat, then managed to force herself onto her back so that she might get a look at her rescuer.

Anyone else would have been contrite, overflowing with apologies for startling her so, begging her forgiveness, asking if she was alright. He didn't seem to recognize that anything very drastic had happened at all. His clothes were smooth, his shoulders straight, the mask in place. He sat some ways away from her and examined his fingernails.

She coughed some of the dust from her throat.

"Don't you ever do that again!"

He looked up at her, blue eyes mildly surprised by the vehemence of her tone. "Why, mademoiselle, do you believe I would have let you fall to your death?"

She thought about this, watching him. The black mask was impenetrable, it revealed nothing, but she could see his lips, and his mouth looked—

Careless.

Unfeeling.

Completely disdainful, disregarding everyone but himself.

Still insane, yes, though it seemed to be buried slightly deeper this time, less close to the surface, less likely to swamp his self-control.

"Yes," she said, honestly.

He put his hands back into his lap, folding them neatly, and nodded at her.

"Good," he said.

Swiftly he was up on his feet, balancing like a dancer, that same strange quality of rhythm and melody obvious in his movements. He moved to the beat of his heart and a strange tune drifting down from heaven, or perhaps filtering up through the earth from hell. Maggie took another few deep breaths and pushed herself to her feet. She found her anger temporarily overridden by that strange fear that had come to her the first time she saw him— fear of being touched by those long, lithe fingers; and fear of never feeling them, the brush of his fingertips along the curve of her throat, his eyes devouring hers as she opened her soul to his—

She blushed and pushed the large envelope at him.

"I found them," she said.

He looked at her, a bit quizzically. She removed her gaze from his hands and focused on his eyes— they gave her the shivers, but at least they didn't make her think like _that_—

This was not going how she had planned at all.

But then, she hadn't really made a plan.

Perhaps that was the trouble.

He said, "You found them." His voice was smooth and blank, carefully so. Margaret swallowed.

_There is something on this man's mind that he doesn't want me to suspect— and why should he care? If it is something bad, it is not like I can do anything about it— even if I went to the authorities, who would listen to a woman claiming to have met the Phantom of the Opera?_

"Yes, I found them." Her hand, offering the envelope to him, began to shake. He moved his gaze to the trembling papers, and his eyes seemed to glow for an instant, unnerving her even further.

Slowly, he reached out his hand.

As his fingers touched the opposite side of the envelope, she said, "But I don't know where they are."

Instantly his gaze flicked up to hers again and she cursed herself. She should have let him find it out for himself— she had done what he asked, and now she should be set free of this hold that he seemed to have on her mind. But _no_—

His eyes demanded an explanation.

"That is," she stumbled on, "I know where they have been— they registered in the lady's home town. They have moved three times since then, however. They came into Antienne five months ago, and caught the very end of the census there. They registered as Raoul and Christine de Chagny every time— no mention of his title. My brother anticipated that, you see, and so I was able to find them despite it. But they were Antienne before the Season—"

"Season," said Erik quietly.

"Yes, monsieur, the series of balls held here in Paris, often in honor of peers or important guests from other countries. The Vicomte is expected to attend several of them every year. I doubt his brother would be best pleased if he did not— it would mean that the Count would be forced to attend on his own, to show respect, and I hear the Count is— not enthusiastic about social occasions."

The sudden show of white teeth underneath the mask was as unnerving as his continued glare. Maggie stopped speaking just on the strength of it— and it took her several seconds to realize that it was a smile.

"I see you are less frightened of me this time, mademoiselle," he said. "Your personality begins to assert itself. Good."

"Th- thank you, monsieur," she faltered.

"Take care it does not become a nuisance. Tell me, mademoiselle, does this information on these social occasions that you possess lead you to suspect that the de Chagnys are in fact in Paris at this moment?"

She hesitated, and then nodded.

"I'd stake my life on it, monsieur."

The tilt of his head and the amused quirk of his lips indicated that this wasn't, perhaps, a wise thing to say in idle conversation. Perhaps he tended to take things literally—

"Good," he said. "You will find out where they reside at the moment, and come back and tell me."

She stared at him.

"You're going to let me go?"

"I have no reason to keep you at this time."

"Bram said you would," she murmured. A smile suddenly illuminated her features, turning her from a frightened woman to a pleased child. Erik looked slightly startled at the difference. Or, perhaps, merely startled at the expression— it was unlikely that two smiles had occurred here, so close together, in a very long time.

"Who is Bram, may I ask?"

"My brilliant brother," she answered, suddenly confident. "He told me you would let me go."

The sudden look of rage on his face effectively quenched her lightening mood. His hands clenched into fists convulsively but he controlled his body and his voice and said quietly, "You told others about me?"

"Only Bram. And he will tell no one. I had to, monsieur. We— he lives in my home, and depends on me, and I on him. I have no secrets from him."

Slowly the rage subsided. His hands unclenched. "Perhaps you should learn to keep secrets," he said. "Merely a suggestion."

She took a deep breath and ventured, "He would like to meet you."

The surprise on Erik's face was wondrous to behold. It was quite clear that he did not experience it often.

"To meet me? Why?"

"He is interested in people, monsieur."

"Ah, but I am not a person, mademoiselle. I am merely a beast, a monster, who resides underneath a ruined hulk of a once-beautiful building." He swept her a low, mocking bow.

She swallowed. "Yes, monsieur. I cannot quite explain it, but it seems he finds that even _more_ interesting."

Erik stood up straight and looked at her. His eyes appeared softer than normal— although, she told herself, that could very easily be an illusion.

"And I told him of your music," she went on hesitantly. "He is a bard, my brother is, a singer. He has been fascinated with music his whole life."

"And you?" Erik inquired. "Have you, too, felt this fascination?"

She shrugged her shoulders a very little bit, and looked up at him, the blush creeping back up to take over her face little by little.

"Not until recently, monsieur. And— you did promise you would play, when I came back."

"So I did," he said softly. He watched her a moment more and then seemed to come back to himself. Clutching the envelope in his hand as though it meant the world to him, he beckoned to her and led her down the stairs. She followed him, transfixed by his movements, not aware enough to put up a fight when he suddenly swept his cloak over her and, with a stealthy touch on her neck, rendered her unconscious.

She did not wake up for some time, but the music was there in her sleep; and where always she had dreamed of shapes and colors, suddenly sound was everything, absolute and all supreme.


	10. Drowning

**Chapter Ten: Drowning**

She was having the most peculiar dream.

Light filtered through some thick substance, perhaps water, that surrounded her. She was momentarily afraid that she would drown, but it didn't seem to affect her at all. She stood in her familiar home, in the front hall— surrounded by prosaic and known objects, all turned suddenly alien to her eyes by the weird quality of the light. She glanced up.

There was no roof to the house. Some incredible force had torn it off, and now she was exposed to the watching eyes of a curious world. She felt as though her mind, her thought processes, were unprotected as well, naked to the stares of strangers. She clutched her arms about herself and shivered. It was cool there in the hall, where always before it had been warm and full of a comfortable feeling. That comfort was gone now.

It was unlikely, of course, that anyone would take sufficient interest in her affairs to look in on her; but now as she looked up she saw the faces of people unknown to her, foreigners in her eyes, peering down at her with an air of detached interest, like spectators at a zoo. They read her every thought, they saw the lines of her body through her clothes, they pointed and laughed at the scarring on her mind.

She shivered and clutched herself tighter. The doors were closed, at least they could not come down here, could not absolutely invade her home as they had invaded her mind—

They began to come down the walls.

They walked as easily as if gravity were an option for them, an afterthought, or perhaps something they'd never even heard of. Even the children were monstrously tall, their bodies stretched and misshapen, their arms reaching out to her, to poke and prod. She wasn't human to them; they did not recognize her as one of their species—

Or perhaps it was the other way around. _They_ were not human. And she was _not_ of their species.

She screamed, a wordless shrill of terror. In her mind it was loud and real, but it faltered even before it left her lips, so there was nothing to it by the time it reached the air. They understood, however. They screamed back; animal sounds, rising in pitch and frequency till everything began to shatter. Air bubbled from their lips in the strange watery atmosphere, and she realized suddenly that she hadn't drawn breath once.

She was not breathing.

In terror and horror she flung her hands up to her face, covered her head with her arms, crouched to the ground, weeping, begging someone to hear her, take pity on her, lead her out of this place—

It happened quite suddenly, and she didn't even get the sense of displacement that come with sudden transference from one location to another. All she knew was the screams died away as though the sound had been cut off, and another noise replaced them— the sound of quiet breathing.

She felt a warm touch on her hands, still up over her head, and she lifted her face to see.

Erik stood there.

The mask was gone, and the wretched half of his face looked calm and noble in the strange half-light. He had brought her to warmth and silence and she was grateful, all at once, instantly, the emotion swamping everything else she had ever felt for him. He stood and moved back from her.

She took herself to her feet and swayed on them a moment, in her eyes a look of pleading.

Her lips moved.

At first she felt fear again because she couldn't hear her own voice, but gradually the sound rose till it was audible, and she said, "Am I dead, Erik?"

He refused to speak, only shook his head.

"But I am not breathing."

A small quirk at the corner of his lips indicated a smile, and the gratitude she felt was suddenly joined by a rush of longing. He stepped towards her, his face smooth and implacable and so beautifully human, turned her chin up to face him, put his lips to hers and breathed life through them.

She was gladder for his touch than for the life that suddenly pulsed through her— she felt her heart begin to beat again, and, not waiting to acknowledge it or thank him for it, put her hands around the back of his neck and pulled him down, pulled him closer, pulled him deeper.

She thought she would die from the ecstasy of it, and concentrated on the feel of him beneath her fingers, the trim line of his hair tickling the palm of her hand, the stiff collar a diagonal pressure below it. She described it to herself. Words had become suddenly important, her lifeline, to keep fast hold of before she drowned in Erik—

He didn't let go.

Always before, he had released her, stepped back and pushed her away, not violently and yet still angrily— there was enough anger in him for ten people. But now he held her close, whispered soundless words onto her lips, closed his eyes as he felt her hair brush his face. She had given up. There was nothing she wanted more. As if obeying her unspoken request, his hand drifted up from her waist to caress her neck, then down again slightly, coming to rest over her left breast.

She felt the pounding stop.

She opened her eyes and knew that Erik had stepped away from her, though she could barely see. The world was going dim, the light swallowed up in darkness, and she could only just make out his form in front of her, holding something in his hands.

He looked down at it and again that small smile twitched at his lips.

Then he let her heart fall to the floor, where it shattered into a million pieces.

She awoke, choking in oxygen, desperately in need of comfort, but Raoul was gone again, and when she put out her hand, all she felt was the coldness of the empty bed at her side.


	11. A Lighter Darkness

**Chapter Eleven: A Lighter Darkness**

In awakening, she felt lethargic, but content, as though she had been drugged. She looked only at the air a few feet in front of her, satisfied to study the minuscule motes of dust that floated there, dancing in the light that came from somewhere to her right, she couldn't tell just where. It was only a brightness at the corner of her eye that enabled her to sense the difference between light and dark— everything seemed to be mixed up, intangible and wraith-like, nothing defined. And where there were no certainties, there were no boundaries, and she drifted for several moments in and out of consciousness, like the tide on the seashore.

When memory returned it struck like a lightening bolt.

She sat up immediately, clutching at her head. Wild eyes searched around her, looking for clues as to where she was and what she was doing there—

"Did you enjoy your sleep, mademoiselle?"

Her eyes lighted on him and she clenched her jaw. "You! What did you do to me?"

"I played for you, as I was requested," Erik said, and gave a slight gesture at the organ to demonstrate his claim. He was not seated at the organ bench, but stood in the doorway leading— well, she knew not where. Perhaps the bedroom. And presumably even the Phantom of the Opera possessed a kitchen and a lavatory. The outline of the lair wasn't clear in her mind— she couldn't recall exactly where she had entered—

"You played for me?"

"Yes, mademoiselle Blessing."

"That's not all you did, is it?"

She saw one eyebrow raise.

"Precisely what are you insinuating, mademoiselle?"

"You caused me to pass out somehow."

"Did you expect me to simply lead you to my lair, allowing you to remember the way so that you could come back here anytime you wished? Or perhaps you desired me to bring the organ up to the surface that I might play for you there. I was forced to do something, mademoiselle, and I chose to conduct you to my home asleep, that you would not remember the way."

"Oh yes? Well, I resent it."

He gave her a cold bow. She sat up straighter and rubbed her eyes.

"How long have I been here?"

"Not long— a few hours, perhaps."

This comment caused her to shoot to her feet immediately. Her hair spilled from its loose braids and gathered in tangles and curls about her shoulders. She pushed it away impatiently as it fell into her eyes.

"I must go home at once! Bram may be worried about me."

"Your brother, is this?"

"Yes, monsieur, my brother. My brother who is at home alone, and who needs me to look after him."

"Is not this brother of yours a grown man, mademoiselle? Can he not take care of himself?"

"No, he—" She changed her mind about what she had been going to say, stopped and bit her lip for a moment. "No, he cannot. Kindly lead me up to the surface, monsieur, that I may go home."

Erik paused and looked at her. The expression indicated many things; she guessed at many of them, but knew one for sure.

"Monsieur Erik, if you expect me to perform tasks for you and take duties upon my shoulders, you are going to have to learn to trust me. You cannot simply knock me out every time I come to speak with you. Already it is becoming a very bad habit."

He looked at her a moment longer, and then said, "It is fairly ridiculous to refer to me as monsieur if you are going to call me Erik. Very few people call me Erik, I must tell you— but even fewer call me monsieur."

"I was adding it out of respect," she offered. "It is an honorific, after all."

"I see. But perhaps you will call me simply Erik, from now on."

"Of course, monsieur— of course, Erik. And you may call me Margaret."

His face stiffened slightly, indicating that this was unlikely to happen, but he bowed again anyway, acknowledging the offer.

"And while you may not trust me now," Maggie went on, "perhaps you will learn. I will do what I can for you— I feel compelled to do no less, but I can do no more."

Erik hesitated. He had spent his life in caution, trusting no one, relying on no one— the last person he had put any faith in at all was Christine. He had trusted her with his heart, and she had betrayed him.

Now, though, there was something in Margaret Blessing's eyes that made him nod shortly and turn to go.

He didn't speak, and she stood surprised a moment before following him. As she hurried after him along dank corridors, she thought about what he had said.

He had played for her.

Perhaps that explained this feeling of loss that she had, the first thing she'd felt upon waking up. The first time she heard Erik play she had been awake and alert until the spell of the music took over her— she wanted that again. And now, when he played for her the second time, she had been asleep. She remembered her dreams, pleasant but vague, and the music filtering through them— but she wanted to be awake for it, eyes wide and mind open, welcoming the sensation as an addict welcomes the next fix. Could that be it? Was she addicted to him already, after such a short time?

Addictions and obsessions. Perhaps something they had in common.

She fixed her eyes on Erik's tall, lithe form as he walked swiftly in front of her. He moved silently and quickly, the cape shifting around him like a miniature black ocean of fabric. His shoulders hunched slightly underneath it as though he carried a burden he had borne for far too long. He didn't even glance over his shoulder at her, so sure was he that she would follow unthinkingly wherever he led. Did she really exude that aura of trusting innocence, even after all these years and everything that had happened, even to someone as naturally suspicious as Erik?

They walked quickly past the first of many tunnels, branching off through the labyrinth. The air at the mouth of the tunnel was cold and smelled of brackish water, but to an adventurer the tunnel was alluring, calling to her with the echoes of long-dead voices. Maggie resisted the urge to dart into it, reminding herself that it was her trustworthiness that she wanted to prove. And anyway, she had to get back to Bram— she couldn't afford to get lost now. She concentrated on following as closely as possible.

Someday, she thought, provided life and health was granted to her— someday, she would come down here and discover the secrets of the labyrinth for herself.

It was an audacious thought, and she knew it. To presume that someone, a mere woman at that, could derive the secret places of a man's mind— and she knew the labyrinth for what it was. Every twist, every turn, every backtrack was all representative of the twists and turns and shadowed corners of Erik's mind, for it was Erik who had built this place. And it was Erik, and only Erik, who knew the secrets and could walk without fear into the blackness.

Regardless.

Someday, she would know the secrets, too.

He led her at last to the ground floor, though it took her a while to realize it. It was as pitch black there as it had been in the labyrinth; evidently the sun had long been down, and it was deep night. She walked past Erik's stilled form and tried to find the door. Tried, and failed. She did, however, run into a wall.

"Ow," she said, rubbing at her face. Erik was beside her in an instant.

"Walk with your arm out, to alert you of anything in your path," he said quietly.

"Even with my arm out, I'll still walk into things. I'm afflicted with clumsiness."

He didn't answer, but she felt his fingers take up a hold on her arm, and felt his sure steps leading her towards the door.

"One would think you could see in the dark, monsieur— Erik."

"I can see in the dark," he said quietly, but offered no explanation.

"Is it late?"

"I have very little concept of time. I do not know."

"If it is too late, I will never be able to get a hansom home. They'll think I'm a— never mind what they'll think. They won't pick me up, though."

He had led her to the door. She could just barely make out the outline of the window, the darkness a slightly different shade and texture. She turned her eyes to where his face must be, pictured how he would look as he considered it, strained her vision, but it was useless— it was far too dark to see him. There were few streetlights on this avenue, and none close enough to make any difference at the moment.

His voice startled her slightly when it came.

"I will accompany you home, Margaret."

The feeling of relief that was her immediate reaction was overwhelmed by an incredible sense of delight. Yes, she thought— he could come, and he could meet Bram. She would manage a tea for him if he liked, he did not eat enough—

She stopped the thoughts cold in her head, withdrew and looked at them.

She didn't like them.

They didn't make sense, even to her.

What was she thinking? To invite the Phantom of the Opera into her home like any normal man— and it wasn't even as if it were socially acceptable to have a man in her home at this late hour. The presence of Bram didn't make a difference, on top of which he was almost sure to be asleep. It was ridiculous.

She said as much, in a very low tone of voice.

"Ridiculous, Maggie."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I— I'm sorry, I was not talking to you."

He took in a deep breath and let it out again before he spoke. "Mademoiselle, I would advise you not to begin talking to yourself, especially at your young age. It is a very bad habit and becomes increasingly hard to break."

She laughed slightly. "Do you speak from experience, monsieur?"

"I always speak from experience. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

She perceived a shadowy outline of a hand push open the door, and then there was a lighter darkness, easier for her eyes to penetrate. She felt his hand on her arm still and was grateful for the warmth and firmness of it.

He might have a hold on her mind, but it was her home he was going to.


	12. Accompaniment

**Chapter Twelve: Accompaniment **

A hundred steps into the darkness she stumbled, and he caught her. She'd gone nearly all the way to the ground and she heard him grunt as he supported her full weight, the hold on her arm tightening as he pulled upright again. She blushed in the dark, hot and embarrassed.

"I told you I was clumsy."

"The more fool I, then, not to believe you."

He led on, and she followed close, grateful for the hand on her arm that now steered her out of harm's way.

"Erik, why can you see in the dark? How did you learn to?"

There was a long pause in which all she heard was his breath.

"Practice," he said, simply.

After that she did not speak except to direct him towards her home. It was a twenty-minute walk, and she was surprised that he seemed to know the city so well, when he lived underneath it. Clearly he must venture out sometimes, but she couldn't quite visualize him walking the sun-drenched streets like any normal Parisian. The mask, if nothing else, would prohibit it, drawing attention to him which he undoubtedly wished to avoid. He must, then, have come to the Opera House later in life, perhaps traveling early on, or at least residing in some other hideaway. She wondered, if the latter was true, what had happened to flush him out of his first nest; she wondered if the events in the Opera Populaire two years ago had been, not an aberration, but a continuance of a series of occurrences, perhaps leading back for years; perhaps his whole life. She was conscious of an acute feeling of pity, which she tried to quell immediately. Despite her best efforts, it remained.

She knew enough, however, to keep this to herself.

"Just here."

Erik stopped and looked at the building. "Here?"

His tone of voice made Maggie flush a bit, and when she spoke she knew she sounded angry. "I know it isn't quite the style of residence you're accustomed to, but we here above the ground are forced to fend for ourselves. We cannot all sleep in an abandoned opera house."

Even in the dark she felt his gaze on her, and was a bit relieved that it was amused more than anything. She removed his hand from her arm, took two steps, and then stopped.

"Problem?"

"Would you mind seeing me to the door?" she said quietly. "It appears that Bram has forgotten to leave a light in the window."

"Forgotten?"

She didn't answer, and after another moment his hand was on her arm again. They walked up to the stairway, and she fumbled for the key in her pocket. He stood beside her as she inserted it in the lock, and remained where he was as she pushed it open and stepped inside.

She hesitated, then turned to look at him. A dim light from an interior room made his face a glimmer in the dark, the mask a blackness over his skin. He had pulled the cowl of the cape over his head, so all she saw was mouth and chin and eyes staring at her with unfathomable depths.

She cleared her throat.

"Will you come in?"

There it was again, that look of utter surprise. It made her sad, though she didn't want to think about why.

"Come in— into your house?"

"My house, yes. Bram wants to meet you. I try to fulfill as many of his requests as I can— they're few and far between, and though he doesn't ask for much I know there are so many things he wants. If you can help me for just a moment, monsieur, and meet my brother, I would count everything equal between us."

He hesitated for a long moment. Clearly the concept of entering another's home, by express request, was new to him. Finally he nodded, and stepped inside, the glow from within enveloping the darkness of his body and giving him a new presence.

He looked so wrong there in the hall, the tall black figure, cloaked and hooded, the eyes staring wildly as though he expected this to be a trap, that she nearly told him to forget about it, to go back outside, return to his lair and she would see him when she had information. But he was in, now, and she couldn't, somehow, take this away from him.

So she took off her cloak and hung it up, took off her overshoes and set them neatly besides the door, turned to him to ask him if he wanted to do the same. Clearly he did not. He did, however, push the cowl back from his forehead, allowing the light to touch his face; he looked younger in the dim light, though Maggie wasn't sure if it was a trick of her eyes or a trick of her mind.

Stupidly, dumbstruck by the sight of him, she said the first thing that came to her mind.

"Tea?"

The gaze he turned on her was eloquent, and she hurried on, "No, of course not— just a moment, Erik— I will see if Bram is awake."

She walked swiftly down the hall, acutely conscious of his eyes on her. Doubtless he wondered why she had brought him here; she realized her excuse must sound terribly flimsy. Though she did want him to meet Bram, she wanted more to be around him a little longer. She shuddered, stopping to retrieve a shawl from her bedroom on the way to Bram's room, drawing the cloth around her tightly. This fascination with Erik could amount almost to infatuation, if she let it.

She would take care not to.

Music echoed in her mind and she worried that the choice wouldn't be hers to make.

Bram was asleep, but he'd always been a light sleeper, and at her touch on his shoulder he awoke, and smiled sleepily up at her.

"I told you he'd not keep you, now, didn't I? I'd like credit for being correct, if you please."

"Bram," she whispered. "He's here."

A few more groggy blinks and he was pushing himself upright to sit straight against the headboard, rubbing at his face. "He's here? You— he came _here_, Maggie?"

"I brought him to meet you," she whispered. "I knew you wanted to—"

"Maggie, you brought _the Phantom of the Opera _into our _flat_?"

She hadn't thought of it quite like that. She'd been avoiding it. For all Bram's flights of fancy, he was quite level-headed and practical, and his voice implied that her actions had not been entirely intelligent. Her face set stubbornly.

"It'll be alright."

"All I've heard of him, Maggie, is insanity and murder. Blood and madness trails in his wake. And you invite him into the house like an old friend?"

The stubborn look stayed. If anything, it hardened, and she frowned at him.

The amazement in his eyes suddenly changed into a brilliant smile.

"Bravo, Margaret. Bring him in."

She opened her mouth to say something, changed her mind, and went to get him. She smiled to herself as she went; with Bram, all things were possible, as Bram himself was fond of saying.

She walked back towards the front door, drawing the shawl closer. There was a draft—

The door was open and he was gone.

She stood for some minutes staring dumbly at the empty hallway, then leaned against the wall. All she could think was that she wasn't, really, all that surprised.

And when, a bit later, she walked back into Bram's room, he didn't seem all that surprised either.


	13. The Sharing of Information

**Chapter Thirteen: The Sharing of Information**

She lay awake that night, eyes open and staring blankly at the darkness. Through the thin walls she could hear Bram shifting restlessly in the next room. He often had a hard time sleeping, feeling aches and pains where his legs should be; how sad, she thought, that not only should he be asked to contend with the absence of his legs, but with their complaining ghosts as well.

Sometimes she went to sit with him, to sing him to sleep.

Tonight, she did not, and something in her doubted that she would ever sing again.

Tomorrow she must look for Christine Daae— no, for Christine de Chagny, wife of the Vicomte, beloved of the Phantom of the Opera—

There was a twinge of pain deep in Maggie, a twisting feeling deep down, which she refused to analyze or even think about, for fear it should prove to be jealousy.

* * *

The following morning she rose late, her eyes inclined to close and her face haggard. After washing and tending to Bram's various needs, she twisted her hair up in its braids, fingers moving surely, the mirror unnecessary on account of the years she'd spent in this routine. She finished, patting the last strands into place, then paused and took a look in the mirror.

A rounded face—

Quiet eyes—

Snub nose and a determination to the eyebrows which was not becoming in a submissive woman. However, the word "submissive" couldn't rightly be applied to her. She grinned suddenly. Her smile was, perhaps, her best feature; it showed less often of late than it had done when she was a girl.

They say Christine Daae possessed a beauty unmatched in Paris—

Maggie cut the nagging voice off before it went any further. Doubtless Christine de Chagny was a lovely woman; however, it seemed supremely illogical to Maggie that the most beautiful girl in Paris would go entirely unnoticed until a Phantom chose to make her his protege. That was common sense.

Regardless. It was Christine that Erik wanted found, and it was Christine that Maggie would put forth every effort to find.

She laid the mirror face-down on the vanity with a decisive thump.

A swift walk and twenty minutes later saw her back at the Hall of Records, searching for an acquaintance of hers who might just know where Christine was residing while in Paris.

Her name was Adelaide Catterson, commonly called Lady, and she was British. Not British in the normal sense of being rigidly proper and rather humorless— indeed, were it not for her accent you could not have placed her as belonging to the race at all. She had dark, swarthy skin, mischievous brown eyes, and black hair piled high on her head; she was boisterous and loud and flirtatious; and she knew everyone in Paris. It was for this reason only that Maggie sought her out— she did not care for Adelaide Catterson's manner.

She was greeted with an enthusiastic handshake and a wide smile.

"Margaret, how are you? It's been simply _ages_, has it not, since we last talked. How is your brother?"

"He is well, thank you—"

"Not getting about at all?"

"He—" Maggie paused and looked at her. "No, Adelaide, he has no legs. He _cannot_ get about at all."

"Oh, yes, forgot about that— so many people one meets these days, all with different trials and misfortunes and such interesting problems— why, just the other day I ran into Madame da Shea, her husband left her for another woman— several other women, in fact—"

Maggie shook her head mutely, holding up a hand in an effort to halt Adelaide's flow of gossiping rhetoric. It took a few moments, but she finally succeeded.

"Actually," she was finally forced to say loudly, "there was someone I wanted to inquire about— do you know the de Chagny family?"

The look that crossed Adelaide's face indicated clearly that no, she did not, but that she would like to, very much.

"The wife was involved in that _marvelous_ scandal in the Opera House two years ago—"

"Yes, that's right," said Maggie guardedly.

"They say she— well, its hardly proper for me to mention it to an unmarried woman— but _you_ know what I mean— there was a lot of talk about her _relationship_ with the other man—"

"Indeed," said Maggie sturdily. Inwardly she wanted to cry, to hear the rumors about Erik and his Christine— but she also wanted very, very badly to laugh. She did neither.

"Myself I could hardly credit it. Such a pure young woman, that Christine Daae. But there was, nevertheless, some question about—"

"I don't suppose you would know what they are doing these days?"

Adelaide paused and stared blankly at her. "They went into hiding, you know— silly, I think, to hide from someone who is most likely dead now. They seemed to fear a vengeful ghost—"

"Yes, it would seem that way," said Maggie softly.

"But then, they never did find his body—"

"I thought perhaps they would be coming back to Paris for the season," said Maggie, determined now to pin Adelaide down and learn what she could.

"Why, I believe I did hear that, as a matter of fact," said Adelaide. She was quite proud of her contacts in all the families in Paris, and most of the families in France; though invariably these contacts proved to be maids or kitchen boys or secretaries. Nevertheless, they gave good information. Often a subordinate saw sides of the rich and titled that the general public would not. "A friend of mine who knows the Tristese family— from Italy, you know— says they received a visit from Christine de Chagny herself. The only invitation she accepted, you know— there were scads, I am sure, last year, and when they did not come at all, I imagine some people felt put out— however, a great deal tried again, and it is quite marvelous for the Tristese family that she came to them. No-one thought it at all likely—"

Maggie's breath was coming short. The Tristese family— yes, she knew them. And Christine was there, possibly— the sharp disappointment she felt was undeniable.

She would have to go to Erik and tell him that her commission had been fulfilled— and then he would have no need of her any longer—

Her heart sank— regret at the certain end of her relationship with Erik, and a twinge of horror that she had become so attached to him, so caught up by his voice and presence—

The music. That damnable music.

Unheeded and almost unheard, Adelaide was chattering on, gradually coming to the realization that her audience had lost whatever interest she'd had in the first place. Maggie cut her off abruptly.

"Thank you, Miss Catterson— that is all I wanted to know."

She turned and hurried away, Adelaide staring after her with definite curiosity in her eyes.


	14. The Vicomte's Wife

**A/N: An apology. I know its been a while, but everything I had written got eaten by the infernal computer. I mourned for a while, but then decided to get with the program and go back to doing what I do best— making things up. So, here it is. And if you want to review sympathetically, that wouldn't go amiss either.**

**Chapter Fourteen: The Vicomte's Wife**

Christine sat curled up in the large, overstuffed armchair, her feet tucked underneath her. Alone for the day— the Tristese family, her hosts, were gone for the day, visiting various families about town. She had stayed behind, pleading tiredness— an acceptable euphemism for stomach ache.

John Tristese had chuckled wisely and patted her on the head with his huge hand. The servants were gone, and she was settled into her chair.

"Rest up, child. Enjoy the silence."

"Indeed I will," Christine had answered, a half smile on her face. "You needn't worry about me—"

They wouldn't, of course. Though Maria would_ say_ she worried, Christine would be out of her head in no time; practically as soon as Maria stepped out the door. What use was it, worrying over Vicomte's wives, when there was visiting to be done, people to pander to, men to flirt with behind her husband's back? Life abounded with entertainments during the Season— a woman would be a fool not to take advantage of them.

Christine was content to stay home and be a fool, for the day. She'd had quite a few opportunities of taking advantage of the various entertainments, though she hadn't quite realized them at the time. It wasn't until that middle-aged Monsieur Trapp had actually said, "I've got a flat, incidentally, on the far side of the city. As your husband is out of town, perhaps you'd like to come and see it?" that she realized what he was attempting to do.

She was quite aware of the fact that she could easily take a lover— more than one, if it came to that. Raoul was often from her side, leaving her to her own devices, leaving her to find her way in a society that she, by rights, did not belong to. However, she was content as she was, for the moment. Her heart was held by two men, and that was enough for anybody.

She still considered herself in love with two men—

But she only dreamed about one of them.

She frowned in concentration at the sewing in her hand. It had taken her slow, gradual years to learn how, from one of the Opera House's seamstresses— she hadn't had much time, when she was younger, but now that she was married, she resurrected the art and attempted to perfect her use of it. While still a long way from perfect, she was getting better.

She worked the piece over in her hand, admiring the tiny stitching, the rich beauty of the cloth. Halfway through with it— and it would be lovely when finished. By the time she was done it would be ready for use—

She stabbed her finger with the needle on the next time through.

With a small cry, more of surprise than pain, she dropped the cloth hurriedly, in order to avoid bleeding on it. She stared at her pricked finger for a moment. The blood welled up incredibly fast, a bead of bright red on the pad of her finger.

Red—

She shook herself out of the reverie, though she trembled from the effort. It took more and more strength of will these days, to keep herself in the present, to prevent herself from being dragged back into that whirlwind— that fog— the tempest that characterized her life, two years ago.

Only two years?

It seemed an eternity.

She pushed herself out of the chair and rushed for the bathroom, bending over the basin. She thought she would be sick— she was sure she would be— but the feeling passed, leaving her breathless and oddly disappointed. Sometimes it seemed as if purging would be a blessed relief, ridding her of all bodily ills, of which there were many. She remained bent over the basin, and tipped water over her finger, watching the blood stain the liquid with bright clouds.

She stayed like that, bent and hunched, her eyes wide, mesmerized by the color.

Then she breathed out, long, expelling all the air in her lungs till she felt like she would collapse, and stood up, glancing at herself in the mirror.

He stood behind her.

For a long moment, their eyes met.

Understanding, threatening, anger, and love on the one side.

Understanding, sorrowing, fear, and love on the other.

Then Christine fainted, falling full length on the floor, and hitting her head with a sickening crack on the flagstones.

She lay there for she knew not how long— surely only a few moments— and when her eyelids fluttered and she came back to her senses she continued to lie there, stretched out on the floor, the cool of the flagstones welcome against her cheek. Somewhat dreamily, she wished for him to come to her— to take some definite action, so that all responsibility might be lifted from her shoulders.

If he touched her, would she die?

And if so, of happiness? Or was his touch fatal, poison to the one who had betrayed him, the one whom he loved the most?

She couldn't wait any longer to find out. Be Erik a pathway to bliss or a shortcut to hell, she had to know.

But when she looked for him, he was not there.

She raced through the house, from room to room, calling his name— no, screaming his name, screaming wild like a banshee, screaming like a lost child, screaming like a doomed soul. It seemed that he was everywhere and nowhere, perched on the chair just to her left, up there in the corner of the ceiling, his teeth white as he grinned like a skull, laughed at her infantile efforts to track him down.

"You ineffective, inadequate woman— you _child_."

She stood in the hallway, her hands balled in fists at her sides, her face red with exertion, and wailed, keening, a woman utterly lost.

Before the Tristese family returned, she had come back to herself— cleaned up the blood from her fall, arranged her hair to cover the ugly brown crusting on her skull, changed her dress and put things back to rights and recovered her smile and her gentle, laughing ways. She sat down to dinner with them, her nerves singing shrilly, and they put all her indiscretions of manner down to her indisposition earlier that day. John Tristese merely tried to cheer her up.

"It is a pity you cannot convince your gadabout husband to be in town tomorrow night."

She looked at him, her laughing eyes quite as normal. "Why is that, if I may ask?"

"Why, we were intending to keep it a secret— as, I suppose, we have, till now— the first ball in this house in five years shall be given in your honor."

Christine laughed a little, surprise evident in her voice and eyes. "In my honor?"

"And that of your husband— but seeing as he is still away, I suppose you will have to fill the need," said Maria, winking a little and turning her attention back to the soup.

"Yes," said John Tristese, nodding, "and you must dance with all of the men. It will be required, for every man there will want to be honored with the hand of one such as Christine de Chagny."

Christine blushed, slightly, and rubbed at the scab on the back of her head absentmindedly.

"And," John Tristese went on, as Maria seemed preoccupied with the food, "it will be up to you to guess who each one is. It is a Masque, you see. I wager you will never guess each one!"

Christine continued to laugh, though her throat was suddenly dry.

"Although, for some, the ones you have met at least, it will be easier," confided John Tristese, as though he was telling her a secret. "For all you must do is listen to them when they speak— the voice never lies, eh, my dear?" He got no reaction from Maria, who was engrossed now in the chicken, and turned a fond smile on Christine. "Eh?"

"Indeed," said Christine, the smile still in place.

"And suppose a stranger's voice comes— why, you will know immediately to stay away from that one, then. The voice never lies."

"No," said Christine, "I should not be taken in by a stranger's voice."

John Tristese shrugged his shoulders a few times beneath his voluminous dress coat, pleased with himself.

"The voice never lies," he repeated. "No indeed! How true. The voice never lies."

Afterwards, Christine fled to her room, falling to her knees before the bed. She clasped her hands and closed her eyes— feeling the need for someone definite to ask help of, she prayed.

"Raoul— come back— "

She took a deep, shuddering breath.

"_He is here_."


	15. A Night to Remember

**Chapter Fifteen: A Night To Remember**

Preparations went on apace for the Masque that evening.

Christine hid in her room the entire day, under pretense of trying to piece together a costume. She confided to Maria that she was seriously considering coming in one of the dresses she had worn as a chorus girl in the Opera House, and Maria had laughed— as, clearly, it must be a joke. It would be ridiculous to attend a high-society Masque in the skimpy dresses she had worn when younger.

Christine knew, and allowed herself to recognize, that what she wanted more than anything was not to ever leave the room again; to stay there, safe behind doors.

If she was safe.

As the hours passed and the evening hastened, she began to doubt it.

There was no question in her mind that Erik would come there— for a long time she had wondered if he had died after she left the Opera House, but though her childish mind would have liked to believe it— it was romantic after all, a man dying of a broken heart— she knew that he was out there still. And now, somehow, he knew where she was.

It didn't occur to her to wonder how he had found out.

Erik was, as far as she was concerned, an entirely omnipotent being, capable of magic and miracles and impossible, impossible destruction.

She curled up in a ball on the bed and sobbed into her pillow— there was such fear in her, she thought it might kill her; but also there was a terrible excitement.

He was coming for her—

Erik!

All she could do was sob his name out over and over, soaking her pillow and the coverlet with her tears. It was her prayer, her supplication, invocation and curse all at once.

Below her the house bustled as things were set in motion, preparations were made. The sun traversed its weary path across the sky, and everything that didn't matter was just the same as usual. Eventually the shadows lengthened, and she could tell that the day was drawing towards evening-tide.

A servant came and knocked on the door, startling her out of her stupor. She sat up straight on the bed, and said, "Come in."

The door cracked open and the startled face of Flanders looked in at her.

"Are you alright, madame?"

Madame. It still sounded strange to her ears, even after these two years.

"Why," she said, "don't I sound alright?"

"Um—" said Flanders, but couldn't get anything out other than that. Christine looked down at herself, then pushed herself off the bed and went to look in the mirror.

She had been avoiding mirrors since the day before and was genuinely startled at the apparition that looked back at her. Her eyes were hollow, her face gaunt, her hair hanging in clumps around her face.

"Oh dear," she said helplessly.

With the assistance of Flanders and another housemaid whom she didn't know the name of, she made it through her bath, and into a dress that she had bought in her homeland— dark, dark blue, the skirt started not two inches below the breasts, and flared out dramatically in front and back, sloping stiffly to brush the ground. The bodice was intricately stitched with deep purple thread, so the patterns only showed when the light caught it just right. The nameless maid put her hair up, piled high on her head, and Christine watched herself dreamily in the mirror and thought that she looked like a queen.

She did.

When she descended to the room below, walking all alone, though John Tristese, as her host, stepped just a few paces in front of her, her back was straight and she looked impossibly regal; not at all like some former diva, someone merely to be pitied by everyone who looked on her. Someone on whom pity had already been taken far, far too many times.

No, the eyes adored her, swallowed her up and carried her as she completed the stairs, walking lightly with tiny steps of tiny feet. Everyone in the room admired her at that moment, as she held herself tall and smiled on the crowd— although, there were whispers, the poor child had undergone a terrible ordeal a few years ago— yes, that scandal at the Opera House—

But Christine was totally unaware of all of this.

The music had started, and all thoughts in her head were of dancing.

She hadn't danced since before she was married— since, in fact, she was in the ballet corps at the Opera Populaire. She missed the motions, the sheer physicality of it, the exercise she had so badly neglected of late. She went through the first quadrille with John Tristese, smiling and nodding as gentlemen paid their respects by way of a bow, and was laughing and ready for more as the music ended.

A young man, she thought his name was Joseph Marie, though she couldn't quite be sure, had come up to claim the next dance; before he could reach her, however, another man, taller, thinner, and infinitely more familiar, had stepped in front of Christine and whirled her into his arms.

She went, laughing, her eyes half closed from the ecstasy of the dance. She paid no attention at all to the man who held her in his arms, marveling at her face and the closeness of her; she paid no attention to long fingers caught around her waist, or a familiar mouth that held a definite trace of cruelty— or even of blue eyes that gazed on her in utter disbelief.

No, it was the voice that made her realize who it was she danced with.

Erik's breath rasped painfully in his throat, but he managed, "You are looking well."

The change was immediate and drastic. Christine paled visibly, her eyes shooting open to meet his gaze, while her mouth fumbled for something to say. The fumbling was about to turn to a scream when his hand covered her lips and his eyes warned her to be quiet.

"Its been quite some time, hasn't it? No, no, don't speak. I would so hate to alarm the revelers— gaiety comes so rarely these days, and smiles are hard-won. Just allow me to speak my piece, if you please, Madame de Chagny."

He waited till she nodded, her eyes wide above his hand, then released his grip on her face and renewed the vigor of the dance, taking up her hand once more in his own and turning her around; then, as couples all around mimicked the movement, he pulled her back against him tightly, and whispered in her ear.

"I've come back, you see—"

_Why?_ she wanted to cry, but it would have been foolish. He had warned her to stay silent, and he meant it.

His voice went on, low and guttural and feral and mesmerizing; he was warm and solid behind her, a man, not a ghost, and the feel of his hands about her waist was intoxicating. Christine's heart beat so fast she thought it would either drop dead of exhaustion or seek to escape her body by any means possible.

"I've thought of you so often, Christine— the way you looked as you left. There was something about the manner of your leaving that never did ring true, no matter how often I went over it in my mind."

The music commanded a change of pace; she swung out on his arms and they clasped hands, parading in a circle, their eyes locked together.

"You left me, and yet I saw something that would not be denied— something in your eyes, I doubt if even you recognized it for what it was. But I recognized it, Christine, though I'd never seen it before, I recognized it and it laid burning hands on my soul. Love, Christine— there was love in your eyes. And it was not for that man-child you call your husband—"

She swung away from him, their fingertips suddenly the only connection between them, the spell nearly broken. But he caught her hand, and pulled her back, her body slamming against his far more violently than was necessary. In that second she knew she would lose, no matter what happened, and the knowledge both panicked and excited her, so she barely suppressed the moan that threatened to escape her.

She would lose, and it would be beautiful as she fell.

His lips lowered to her ear, and he whispered, "It was for _me_."

* * *

How she made it through the rest of the evening, she did not know. After that dance, Erik had disappeared back into the crowd, swallowed up by the sea of masked faces. She found herself next, several hours later, returning to her room in a state of utter and absolute confusion. As she changed out of her dress and into her nightgown, she felt herself totally undone by all that had happened, and could not make heads or tails of anything.

What did he want of her?

What did he expect her to do?

Why wasn't he here to tell her?

With that thought, there was a rap at the door.

Without thinking, she went immediately to the door and opened it.

He stood there, eyes hard behind the mask. His cloak was wrapped around him, so he appeared a tall black column that might have been made of stone, for all he moved— the only thing mobile was his eyes, as he looked her over.

"What do you want of me?" she asked. Her breath came short, and she had to force the words out.

"Only what I have always wanted of you," he said.

"I cannot give you anything," she cried. "I am married now, I am not some child to be bewitched with your tricks."

The faintest quirk of his lips made his sarcasm evident. "Clearly not, madame de Chagny; nevertheless, I am here, and it is up to you what to do about it."

Up to her—

She breathed harder, faster, thinking of what she could do if it were truly all up to her. All the dreams she'd had since she left Erik down in the basements of the Opera House— could he be her savior, her hero, her prince? Could she ever find out?

Could she stand to leave Raoul and lose everything—

Their eyes met, and, almost imperceptibly, his gaze moved downwards, to rest on the curve of her belly. The involuntary movement she made, instantly laying a hand across it as if to protect the infant within from the heat of his gaze, was more telling than any confession.

She was afraid, suddenly, of the look in his eyes, and whirled away, slamming the door and locking it, leaving him alone in the dim corridor.

He punched his fist through the wall, and kicked a series of dents in the plaster, but as he spent his rage, not a single word escaped his tightly-set lips. Finally coming to rest with his back against the wall, he nearly began to laugh at the ludicrous situation.

He had dreamt for years of nothing but her—

And she had made a life without him.

He struck his head against the wall, then did it again, not hard enough to render him unconscious, but enough to make him dizzy. His hand throbbed. He struck his head again, again, three more times, then finally stumbled off down the corridor, leaving a large dent in the plaster, a few strands of black hair held there in the red wet patch of his blood.

On the other side of the door, Christine Daae de Chagny beat her hands against the wood paneling and sobbed; gradually sinking down to the floor, she cried herself out, and spent her tears into the smooth carpeting, her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach as though cradling the greatest treasure in the world.


	16. A Blessing On Us Both

**A/N: Sorry for the long time between updates! Hopefully things will start running smoother from now on. Anyway, leave me a review and let me know what you think!**

**Chapter Sixteen: A Blessing On Us Both**

Maggie sat alone.

It was not that late, but Bram had a habit of falling asleep just after nine in the evening; she found him, more often than not, with his hair hanging tousled over his face, whatever book he was in the midst of at the moment would be open on his chest, his breathing would be slow and deep, and she was grateful for him, absurdly grateful; thankful that he was there to keep her sane, mindful of how close she had come to losing him.

And, always, always, that nagging resentment—

She sat at the small table in the kitchen, followed the grain of the wood with her fingernails, eyes staring down and through the surface, into another world.

Where she sat in a high meadow, surrounded by tall grass, and she looked down on the valleys of Ireland; steep slopes covered in green, her brother three years younger and running headlong down them, laughing in the sun at the glorious freedom of being whole. Her parents were there, for it to be perfect—

For it to be perfect, Erik appeared as well.

Half in and half out of a dream, she saw his face smooth and unmasked, and _he_ was perfect. He sat down beside her and brushed his lips over her ear; when she turned to him his eyes were wide with love and his normal madness was replaced with a blessed peace.

She shook herself out of her reverie with a choked sob— it was wrong to think of someone like that, to steal them for yourself and make them behave according to your dictates. It was an invasion of his privacy if nothing else, to fantasize about him as though he didn't have feelings and wants and loves of his own.

And it was pointless, utterly pointless, to dream about something you could never have.

She argued with herself that that was what dreams were for, but could not succeed in convincing herself even a little. She was not in the habit of indulging in pointless fantasies, and nothing, not even Erik, could induce her to start now.

Erik—

Even the thought of him made her shiver. The music— that music— the obsession, addiction, the need for it—

What could she do, now that he was gone forever?

She dropped her head onto the table and cried for a very long time. Sobbed out her frustration and her strong sense of loss, cried out her sorrow for her brother's pain and her mourning over the loss of her own future, betrayed in her tears her deep and terrified penitence for the horrendous wrongs she herself had wrought—

And what of Christine?

Did she love him?

Would she greet him with joy and rapture in her eyes, take him into her arms and welcome him?

No matter how much she tried to wrest her mind away from Erik, it always returned. She sighed deeply as the last of her tears slipped down her cheeks, and admitted to herself what she had known for some time now—

She was lost.

She was owned.

And the man she would slave, fight, and die for had no need of her any longer.

There was a knock on the door, and she stood abruptly, pulling herself together, wiping at her eyes. Distracted as she was, it hardly occurred to her to wonder who would be calling at after ten o'clock at night.

She opened the door to him and gasped as he nearly fell inside. She reached for his arm but he tore it away and snarled at her like an animal. She backed away from him and let him haul himself to a kitchen chair.

She watched him impassively, holding her emotions in strict check.

"I suppose," Erik said through gritted teeth, "that you expect me to apologize for treating you so brusquely."

"No, I expect you to apologize for bleeding all over my kitchen floor." Somewhere along the way he had acquired a cut on his arm. It was not deep, but bled profusely, and with a hard swallow and a deep breath, Maggie moved to clean and bandage it. He stopped her.

"What good is it?" he demanded, his voice hoarse. "What good, to patch up a man who is broken beyond fixing? You see before you a shell, a skeleton, mademoiselle, and no skills will bring me back, if indeed I ever was, to normality."

They looked at each other, their eyes conversing deep words that would never be spoken.

"Now you're just being dramatic," she said, and reached for his arm again. He pushed her away with his other hand, and she saw that his left wrist dangled limp.

"You've broken your hand."

"And what if I have?"

"You must let me set it."

He ignored her— his eyes suddenly settled on the rack of kitchen knives that sat across from him. "Why," he breathed, "when it is of no use to anyone— if it is no use, why should I keep it—"

Quickly he was up, and had grasped the largest of the butcher knives. It glinted wickedly as he held it over his wrist— his eyes glinted, too, and a small smile appeared on his lips.

Maggie shrieked. She knew there was no way she could stop him by persuasion— she hauled back her foot, and her boot connected with the inside of his knee.

Erik went down with a grunt, the knife clattering to the floor. She picked it up and hurled it at the wall, where it stuck, quivering. She stared at it for a second, caught her breath, then turned her attention back to Erik, who was on his knees, head bowed.

She went down besides him.

"Erik, listen to me. Look at me."

He refused.

She let out a harsh sigh, twisted a hand in his hair and yanked his head back so hard she nearly snapped his neck, forcing him to look in her eyes.

"I _found_ her for you— I've done_ everything_ you asked me to— why should you still seek to hurt me?"

His eyes glittered, but clearly he did not understand. She didn't blame him; she didn't understand it herself. But she let go of him.

"Hurt _you_, mademoiselle?" he inquired, his voice like steel.

She stood up and turned away from him, gulping in several deep breaths to bring herself back under control. "Erik— kindly keep your self-destructive tendencies for your own home. I have enough to contend with without mopping blood off the floor and trying to dispose of a body."

She thought this would anger him, but instead he smiled, and it took her breath away.

He stood up as well, and held out his limp wrist to her. "You are right, mademoiselle— thank you for recalling me back to my senses." He watched as she examined his hand, and shook her head.

"It is not badly broken, it would seem— perhaps a fracture. It needs to be set straight. Would you like me to set it?"

"Allow me." He pulled it out of her gasp, frowned in concentration, then wrenched it to one side and held it straight. He smiled at her, though there were tears of pain in his eyes. "This is not the first time this has happened."

She swallowed past the lump in her throat and began to bandage his wrist. "You saw Christine, then."

"Madame de Chagny? Yes, we had quite a little interlude.

Maggie closed her eyes. "You didn't— harm her?"

"My dear mademoiselle Blessing, whatever makes you think I am even capable of something like that?" His tone was simultaneously mocking and sharp— she had annoyed him. It had been a stupid question. Of course he would not hurt Christine— at least, she thought, not when there were people about.

She opened her eyes again to look at him. She could scarce believe that he was here. When she had told him of Christine's whereabouts, he had dismissed her, a feverish gleam in his eyes. She'd never expected to see him again.

And now he stood in her kitchen, and she held his hand in her grasp.

She gestured to a chair.

"Tell me," she said quietly.


	17. The Way Things Are

**Chapter Seventeen: The Way Things Are**

"Tell me."

His gaze shifted from the rough wood of the table, climbed up over her arms to her face; he felt slightly delirious from the pain in his wrist, and the throb at the back of his head. Through the shimmering haze over his eyes, he perceived Maggie dimly, and something about her was wrong.

"You've been crying."

She inhaled sharply. "I have not." But the tell tale movements of her fingers, as she brushed at her eyes, gave him the lie. He shook his head.

"It matters not," he said. "I do not intend to intrude on your personal issues."

The tears stung at Maggie's eyes again, but she masked them easily in anger.

"How very considerate of you," she said tightly.

The pain was harsh; the pain was cutting; the pain was misleading, and instead of reacting with coolness as he normally would have done as the conversation turned personal, he smiled at her. She shook her head at him.

"Tell me," she said.

Erik's gaze returned once more to the table, slowly drifting over to his bandaged wrist. He rubbed at it lightly with his other hand, pushing his limits— how badly did it have to hurt before he passed out on the kitchen floor? At the thought, the small smile reappeared on his lips, and his eyes flicked back up to her.

"I saw her," he said. "She is— she would appear to have made her choice."

Maggie's heart sank in the same moment as her spirits rose; she was sorry for the deep sadness in Erik's eyes, she worried that she still saw a glint of hope— and underneath it all, a profound and terrible joy that he had come to her. Mad as he was, obsessed as he was, when he'd been hurt, he came to her.

It was too frightening to think about; it made her too strangely happy; she pushed the thought away and tried to concentrate. Erik didn't help, however; he didn't appear inclined to talk, but simply sat there with that gentle smile on his lips, his gaze intense on her face.

He must be in pain, with those wounds—

In pain.

Obsessed.

Perfect.

Mad.

Mad, yes, mad. Mad, both of them. She shook her head as if to clear it of these thoughts; it didn't work. He was humming under his breath, and the sound made her want to die, because she was afraid of what would happen if she lived.

His hand twitched and, oh, she could feel it, sliding down her cheek to her throat, a tentative touch becoming slowly more strong as it descended, the smooth surface of his fingers flush against her skin—

She shut her eyes quickly and said, less steadily this time, "Tell me."

"She's made a life," he said dreamily, "with that insufferable Vicomte. Stop me if you've heard this before, I am quite sure the tale has been told—"

She blinked at him, but he went on.

"He doesn't deserve her. I don't deserve her either. No one deserves her, that's just the problem, she's too good for anyone, and too much of a child to know what to do about it."

Words of love, spoken in that tender tone that made her want to begin crying again.

"You saw her," she said, fighting to get her words out clearly, "what did she say?"

"Not a lot," he said, and that brief grin disappeared now, as his face settled back into its customary genteel lines and his eyes widened and darkened with pain. His fingers rubbed listlessly at his wrist, and her gaze was drawn to them; she wondered why he would do that, deliberately try to inflict more pain on himself. "I suppose she was rather distracted by my presence. The Vicomte was not there."

She nodded, and reached out suddenly to stop his fingers, drawing them away from his wounded wrist. He let her hold his fingers for a moment, then took his hand away, set it to one side of the table.

"What did she say?" she asked again.

"She will go," he said. "She'll go away, Margaret— somewhere she thinks I will not follow." There was heartbreak in his voice, and the tears overflowed on both their faces. She smoothed one hand over her eyes and attempted to concentrate.

"If you want me to," she said, "I will find her."

His eyes shot to hers, and shook her to her soul. More than anything she wanted to see love there, love for her— all there was the beginnings of a deep-held regard, and for now, it was enough. Anything was a start.

"Could— would you do that?"

She smiled, slight and tired, and her fingers drummed on the table slightly. "I believe I could. I have a fairly good idea of where she would go anyway."

He inclined his head, his eyes seeking hers avidly. "Do you?"

"When one is pressured, one runs to ground. I imagine even you sought out the depths of your lair when things got bad."

"I did indeed," he said quietly. "Though it is not a home."

"'Foxes have dens and birds have roosts,'" she said, "but the Phantom of the Opera has nowhere to lay his head?"

He tilted his head and looked at her quizzically.

"Paraphrasing," she explained. "I'm sorry. But nevertheless, you perceive my point— in times of trouble, one goes home."

"You think she will travel— back to her homeland, then? Out of France?"

"I should say definitely out of France. She most likely thinks you rather a homebody, I daresay— she must have been surprised to see you even out of the Opera house."

"Mademoiselle," he murmured, his eyes faraway, "I should think surprised was not the half of it."

She watched him, this amazing transformation as his madness slipped away— not gone entirely, but tucked deeper into him, nearly out of sight— to be replaced with a cold and competent sanity. It enabled him to plan out actions that he had conceived in his madness; to behold this concurrence of two different levels of his mind was disturbing to her: partly because it is a strange thing to witness anyway, and mostly because it was terribly familiar to her from her own personal experience. It occurred, not frequently, but on more than one occasion; when she was frustrated by her limits as a gentlewoman, when she had taken her social status as far as it would go, when she was forced to make irrational decisions to achieve her own ends. She disliked this sort of thinking— it seemed almost dishonest to switch one's sanity on and off like that. She knew though, watching Erik, that he had much less choice about it than she did, and therefore more excuse. She knew also that, should he apply himself, he could think circles around her any day.

"Out of France, you say?"

"Yes, Erik. Well out. Likely back to her hometown— they had been staying there before they came to Paris again."

He nodded slowly, his eyes thoughtful.

The silence dragged out as he considered, and Maggie was mostly content simply to watch him. The fear of losing him was showing itself again, and her eyes fixed on him as she strained to memorize the lines of his face, to ingrain in her memory that slow half smile and those fingers, those long fingers, pressing upon the keys rhythmic patterns that seemed to be echoed on her skin.

Stroke— stroke—

She clutched her arms about herself and shivered. Erik looked back up at her.

"Then we must go to where she is," he said.

Maggie, caught entirely off guard, could do nothing but blink.

"We?" she repeated.

"Yes, we. I shall need you with me, to run errands, to make arrangements— I would prefer not to show myself, if at all possible. You understand."

No question there; he knew she understood, as indeed she did. It was infinitely probable that Erik had traveled earlier in life; now, however, as she understood it, there was a price on his head. And not many men went about in a mask. Of course he would need an assistant, and of course it made sense for Maggie to be the one, and of course she wanted more than anything to go, more than anything to be with him as long as she could before he finally tracked Christine down and she gave in—

As she would.

No doubt of it, in Maggie's mind. No doubt of it, evident in Erik's eyes, his determination to follow Christine de Chagny to the ends of the earth.

Maggie shook her head.

"You follow her still."

"She did not deny me," he said, his voice harsh. "There was love in her eyes, Margaret, I saw it. As little as I have seen love, I know it when it presents itself before me."

"Are you going to allow her to reject you endlessly?" she cried; the easy feeling between them quickly ebbed as her anger and distress grew. "Every day give her a new opportunity to stomp on your heart, as she did the first time down in the lair— I know the story, Erik. I have heard it all."

"If you have heard it all then you know he interrupted— her precious Vicomte. A young man, a handsome man, Margaret— I daresay _you_ would have appreciated him." His voice rose, becoming a stinging insult that Maggie felt deeply. He stood up slowly, his fist clenched on the table in front of him. "He came down after her— if he hadn't come, she would have stayed. She would have realized how much she loved me. If he hadn't come down—"

"Honestly, Erik, what would you have done? Did he do anything more than you would have, had your positions been reversed? Wouldn't you have done the same, gone after her no matter who took her, or where they went?"

He looked at her, his voice returning to steel. "That is what I am doing," he said. "Should they go to the gates of Hell, I will follow."

She believed him. There was no discounting that determined tone, that strange, canny intelligence in those eyes, and the firm set of his lips. They both sank back down in their chairs.

She took a deep breath.

"I cannot go with you," she said.

* * *

He followed her as she went her way down the hall towards Bram's room, walking as silently as she could. She paused just outside his door and looked in on him; asleep he was, breaths slow and deep, his long red lashes still on his cheeks, and an unusual peace present on his face that he never had whilst awake. She stood for a moment, watching him; watching over him.

"Why?" said the voice of Erik in her ear, and she turned around to look at him. He stood just behind her, very close, but stepped back as her gaze fell on his face, stepped quickly as though afraid she would reach out to him. She did reach out; but aborted the gesture almost immediately, her hands falling to her sides. She wanted to convince him to trust her, but it could not be done by touch.

She returned her gaze to her sleeping brother. So young he looked, so innocent— as though the past three years had never been, as though he were still whole there underneath the piled blankets. She shook her head slightly.

"It would not be right," she said. She spoke in a quiet voice deliberately, so Erik had to step closer and bend down to hear her words. "To travel to another country with a strange man, and no chaperone— I doubt you would allow a chaperone— no, I see you would not. I do not blame you, but it cannot be done. It would not be proper."

To her surprise, this elicited a soft, deep chuckle from him.

"At this moment," he said, "I stand not four inches from you, and the only other occupant of the house is dead asleep. I doubt, should I choose to attempt to ravage you, that he would wake up; provided I took the necessary precautions of muffling your noise."

Her skin prickled at his words, and she knew his eyes were fast upon her face, but she didn't turn to look at him.

"Pray tell, mademoiselle, what precisely is the difference?"

"I daresay you could attempt to ravage me," she said softly. "Whether I would allow you to succeed is another matter entirely. The difference, monsieur, is that where there is no one to see, there is no one to disapprove. As far as Paris is concerned, at this moment, you are no man. At present, I am in company of a ghost. Were you to make such an attempt, which would surely have disastrous results—" She didn't outline what, exactly, these results would be. If he touched her, now, when her skin felt so heavy under his gaze, surely she would melt. "It would be a ghost's mistake only, and a ghost's touch I'd feel. However— the moment you set foot outside my door in pursuit of your beloved Madame de Chagny, you will become real. I will be your link to the outside world, no doubt, but there will be no denying your presence. And there— there will come the disapproval of any who see us. And we will be seen by many."

Finally she dared to turn and look at him, to enforce her words with the strength of her gaze. He stared back at her silently for a while, clearly pondering these issues in his mind.

"You would send me on my own?" he said, doubtfully.

"Not if I can help it," she said firmly.

Finally he let out an exasperated breath. With all her rational words, she goaded him, but he did not see it. "What would you expect me to do then, Maggie— marry you to save your honor from the burning eyes of the world?"

Her breath caught and she felt herself teetering once more on the edge of a precipice. One from which, however, she had no wish to be saved. She longed to sink into the darkness, the blissful oblivion that madness would bring.

Convince him—

Entice him—

If Christine had made a life without him, could he not in turn begin to make a life without her?

He saw none of this. He stared blankly at her for a moment— who did she think he was? A man, a normal man, to do such a thing, to be worried about in that way? As she said, a ghost he was, and a ghost he would remain. To his mind, Maggie above all was free from his advances— he had the beginnings of respect for her, and no love, and this combination induced in him no desire to taint her skin with his touch. He wanted to tell her that her purity was safe with him. He wanted, above all, to laugh at her fears.

But she looked up at him with eyes suddenly determined.

"Yes," she said.


	18. Flight

**A/N: Sorry its taken so long! We're tearing down our house and rebuilding, so I've been busy packing. Packing, and losing my mind at the staggering amount of crap we own. The American Dream, I suppose.**

**Chapter Eighteen: Flight**

"No."

In his voice, her dreams, everything she'd secretly hoped for, shattered into innumerable pieces, never to be put together again. Her eyes searched what she could see of his face— was her argument not convincing enough? What could she have appealed to, to make him decide otherwise? She'd always thought that to entreat a madman on the basis of his humanity would be the supreme argument, perhaps she was wrong, and perhaps he didn't play the game by the rules she'd always held indominitable— what she could see of his face wasn't much. His eyes were quiet and betrayed no emotion whatsoever. His mouth set in a firm line, not cruel, but simply indicative of no concern for her words at all. The rest of his face, invisible, the mask mocking in its smoothness. She never thought much of the mask, and had never wondered, till now, what was underneath it.

Did the rest of his face, unseen, betray any emotion at all?

What right had she to expect it?

He left the house shortly thereafter, immune to everything she said, ignoring her— she didn't follow him to the door.

She grasped at the remains of her dignity with both hands, and clutched the tattered scraps tight

* * *

Life—

So strange sometimes.

When she was young, she had played on a hillside, the same one that she went to in her dreams. It was always sunny there, somehow; none of the abrupt, changeable weather that Ireland was so famous for. Always sunny, always green.

Far away, that very same year, Christine Daae was young; she lived in a beautiful home, she had a beautiful dead mother and a beautiful musician father; and a little boy to watch over her, to fetch her things, to reach tentatively for her plaits and tell her he loved her while he smoothed the ends of her hair over the palm of his hand, looking down at the strands. His nervous fingers unraveled them smoothly

while again far away, Margaret Blessing played with her father. They wrestled on the ground, her father as free as a child himself, laughing at the antics of his giggling daughter, until his brother came in. Margaret's tall uncle, who would draw her to him and seat her on his knee, and when no one was around would say such things and do such things and no one would believe her, ever. She had a habit of telling stories.

Beginning of scars. The skin on her soul, formerly so smooth, acquired an ugly red weal, and the innocence in her eyes diminished by a little

while young Christine Daae, thoughtful, a bit serious for her age, hit Raoul de Chagny one morning for making a comment about her changing body. Hauled off and hit him across the face, an open-handed slap. It was years and years and years before they could laugh about that; and even in their laughter, they knew she had meant it.

_Here is the line._

_Do not cross it._

_Here is the line._

Maggie Blessing grew older as well, and when she first fell in love she sat on her bed all night, knees drawn up to her chest, crooning to herself the words of her mother's favourite lullaby.

_A ne dafae alse, da faech e faeln_

_Rae rahsfa narhaele eln ral chamsaech _

I die while young, my life a land

So quickly discovered, and soon forgot

Conquered compassion, a kindly hand

A different passion to me bro't

A wonderful passion to me bro't

_E daelnem heral chae dei raest_

I lie abed, my mind alight

With ever-changing power of night

The separate chord of land and sea

Captain of my fate, retain your mastery over me

Always o'er me

_Hehceal ach da chei meicheal aem derchema aelem de_

_Efadear aelem de_

Christine had ambition.

She went to Paris.

Maggie had a plan.

It was disrupted by a series of misfortunes that added to the scarring on her soul.

* * *

Erik walked quickly along the streets, uncaring, for the moment, that he was outside in plain sight, although luckily it was dark. He paid little attention to the throbbing in his broken wrist, and even less to the pain in the back of his skull. He felt a little light headed.

He thought he would explode if he did not keep moving.

He kept moving.

He made the mistake of looking up, and to his amazement he saw before him his beloved Christine— younger than she was now by about two years— she had just left her Erik, left him to die alone in the lair, and she had gone with the Vicomte back up to the light.

They laughed in it, reveled in it; it sparked off her hair and danced in their eyes. She took Raoul by the hand, turned him towards her, and asked him, very seriously, a question.

In response, he nodded slowly, and took an ornate wedding ring from a pocket. Slipping it on her finger, he bent forward to whisper in her ear.

The fact that he couldn't hear what was said infuriated Erik. His breath came short as he stared with blazing eyes at the scene, disregarding the fact that it must, it had to be, a hallucination. A vision.

It was too late to be a prophecy.

Christine smiled at the ring on her finger, and then turned the smile upwards to the face of the boy.

Her husband.

The suddenness of the vision struck Erik back a few paces; he uttered a low, strangled cry, full of rage, full of despair.

When he turned, she was there. She had caught up.

Two women, the same city; one faced her newly-arrived husband with thoughts of another, her mind so confused as to what she wanted, as to what she needed, as to what she could do— the other with a cold and unwavering certainty, no matter that it would plunge her down a path she couldn't retrace. Be it destruction or be it paradise on the other side: all she knew for sure was that, eventually, she would find out.

Levelly, carefully controlling her voice to make it flow from her, smooth, steady, she said, "In your heart you want to avenge yourself for the wrongs done to you. Can't you see that the best way to do that is to move on from them, overcome them, supersede them and fill your life with better things? Can't you see what I'm offering you, Erik? Life is short, and we will all die. While we are alive, let me show you what it is like to have a normal life. Please."

She wanted to reach out, trace Erik's chin with her fingertips; she knew better than to touch him. Could she do any more? Or had she done all she could? She was afraid to push him any farther, and she knew that he would have to convince himself.

His eyes were blank, and she didn't know that that's exactly what he was doing.

That agile brain whirled with activity, the vision still burnt brightly inside it, words carefully formulated themselves and then blew away like dust in a windstorm, he was suffused with a strange light and reasons for being; and she was humming under her breath.

His eyes flicked up to her face, burning, searing what he found there; her eyes were closed, and she hummed to herself a tune she had sung when a child, to comfort herself and persuade her mind that everything was alright.

He waited a moment of forever.

"If we marry," he said, choosing one point to follow, "we could leave soon."

Her eyes opened slightly, though she did not look at him. Still humming, she nodded slowly.

Oh, persuasion. Oh, to tell him what to do. The song in her head, the song on her lips, pushing him forward, pushing him on.

"If we marry," he repeated to himself, "we could leave soon, and find her."

_And what then, Erik?_ was a question he didn't ask himself. What then, to find Christine and be married? Would he flaunt his new life to her, as Maggie had said, show that he had moved on— and if so, what was he doing following her— and if not, would he simply convince her to leave her husband and come with him, and would he leave Maggie behind then— pay her off, perhaps, send her home—

Too many questions, too many problems, best just to let things be and do what seemed right. He'd made his lifetime by doing what seemed most rational to him at the moment; regardless of whether or not it seemed at all rational to an outsider. Outsiders did not matter. Only what he saw and what he thought was what mattered.

"Yes," he said.

"Yes?" she said, and he completely missed the light that shone in her eyes.

"Yes," he said, "but it must be now— it must be soon. She will escape, Margaret. I cannot let her go."

Maggie's lashes veiled her eyes once more, and when she spoke, it was quietly.

"It matters not if she leaves," she said. "You are determined to follow her— and I am determined to follow you. Lead on, monsieur."

For a long moment he watched her, feeling the return of his bafflement, his bewilderment— what did she think she was doing? What did she think herself to be getting into?

It came to him, a small and seemingly unimportant insight.

With the tip of his finger hovering under her skin, not quite touching, he turned her face back up to his, and scrutinized her eyes.

"You are like me," he said.

"I have your madness," she said, the hint of a smile dawning in her eyes, "but not your strength."

"I beg to differ," he said.

"Everything yet remains to be seen," she answered.

He allowed her to take his arm as they walked on. She was not quite sure if her feet touched the ground. She knew the strange feeling she had must be, at least partially, happiness— but it did not feel like happiness.

All she knew was a terrible, all-consuming apprehension.

_What's to become of me, now that I've let all rational thinking go its own way, now that practicality and I have parted ways— _

_What's to become of me?_

_And why aren't I more worried than this?_


	19. Stay

Chapter Nineteen: Stay

"Will you stay?"

He glanced around himself, seeming bemused at how they had ended back up at Maggie's apartment. She took his gloved hand gingerly, squeezed it lightly till he glanced back at her and she knew she had his attention. "Will you stay?" she repeated. "Only for a moment—"

He hesitated, and she saw his gaze flick to the door, looking for a moment like a hunted animal.

"Only for a moment," she repeated firmly. "I must speak with my brother." Turning, she rushed down the hall, almost lunging for Bram's door. He started out of a sound sleep as she flung it open, and his confusion only escalated as she crouched at his bedside, throwing her arms about him and babbling about marriage. For some minutes he tried to make sense of what she said, then his ears caught the words, "Erik's wife." He caught at her arm and held her tight, forcing her chin up to look at him with the other hand.

He whispered fiercely, "Hush! Hush! Tell me, Margaret, tell me you've not done anything foolish."

She gulped and her eyes were frantic. "I don't know that I honestly can."

"Well make up your mind to, girl! At least let me know what's going on."

She composed herself and, very quietly, explained.

Bram stared at her, aghast. "What, marry this Phantom? Are you out of your mind, Maggie?"

"No" she said steadily. "No more than normal."

As he began to speak again she cut him off. "Bram, you must listen to me! I know the things he has done, to a degree, and I am in no position to judge. He doesn't love me, Bram, but I am willing to take everything I can get. Because I love him—"

"No, you are _obsessed_ with him," he corrected her coldly. She bit her lip.

"Can you not see," she said, "that he is my only chance at love? You know what kind of man he is. What other man would have me?"

Bram's eyes softened as he watched her. "You blame yourself too much."

"I blame myself, and rightly so."

"Maggie, if you—"

"I do not regret anything I've done, Abram Blessing. Make no mistake," she fired at him, eyes blazing as she rose from her penitent position by the bed. "But it _is_ my fault."

"Does he know?" enquired Bram.

Maggie faltered. "No— I shall have to tell him."

"And what do you think he will do when he finds out?"

She sank slowly back to a sitting position on the bed at his side, her eyes growing dim.

"I can't think," she murmured. "I can't— cannot think about it, Bram. I just have to believe that everything will be alright. Can you remember when we were young, and Father told us that the power of belief could affect things? We laughed at him, I know; perhaps underneath all our imaginings and pretendings we were both born cynics. But the pretend is what I need now, Bram— the pretend, and you, telling me that you'll stay with me no matter what."

Her voice was soft, but blunt and honest. Her younger brother looked at her seriously, then allowed a twisted, wry grin to cross his face.

"Where've I got to go?" he inquired softly. "There's no place for me in the world but with you."

She smiled back, nearly identical to his own, and he thought suddenly that his words were exactly what she wanted to hear from Erik.

He wished that she would, someday.

"Tell me the plan," he said. "Tell me what will happen, and why."

She outlined, briefly, what they would do: Bram would be taken care of here at the flat. They would be married that night and soon follow Christine, hunt her down, find her, allow another confrontation—

Bram frowned. "That sounds like precisely what you were doing before."

"Yes, but this time we need to do it elsewhere."

"How many final confrontations can there be, Maggie?" he demanded. She winced and shushed him. His voice quieted but he went on nevertheless. "Beware your heart, dear sister. You cannot put trust nor faith in this man; he will disappoint you for certain sure."

She looked at the ground and nodded.

"Its about belief, again," she said. "I'll do what I can for him, and maybe in time he will do what he can for me."

Bram watched her, then sat up suddenly and took her wrist in his hand. "You deserve better," he told her, his eyes gazing levelly into hers. "You deserve a chance at a normal life. You deserve the best man that ever lived— no, better. The world should be yours, Maggie."

The slight smile reappeared on her face, a simple twitch of the lips.

"I only want him," she said.


	20. Inexplicable Heart

**Chapter Twenty: Inexplicable Heart**

She came back to him, her presence made manifest only by the slow breaths she took, her tentative footsteps too quiet to hear. He was looking at the dim, brown photograph on the narrow mantel, fingertips brushing rhythmically over the marred, cracked surface of the picture's frame, and didn't turn to look at her as she entered. Though well aware of her presence, he turned his head only slightly, his eyes not leaving the faded faces there, the last remnants of individuals who had long ago departed this earth, though he didn't know it.

"Your family?" he inquired, softly.

"My parents," she said hesitantly, stepping forward a little to look over his shoulder. "My brother and I, as children, you see, along with a friend of ours." A quiet smile appeared on her lips as she gazed fondly at the cheerful, nearly identical faces of the two children seated together on their mother's lap, and the serious expression of the older child standing next to them. Then her eyes moved on, drawn helplessly to the deceptively handsome man standing at her father's left elbow. "And my uncle."

Erik nodded; his face covered by the mask, even his lips and chin showed no evidence of emotion that she might have taken a clue from, nothing to show her how she should proceed.

"You've a family," he said. "And you believe they will have no problem adjusting when you bring into their midst an utterly despised specimen of mankind, an outright criminal. Someone not fit for human society. Someone not fit for anything worthwhile, or admirable, or good in this world. You desire to take this man, if he may truly be called a man, and make him your own, binding yourself to him."

She found his words brought the echo of Bram's to her mind; pushing that away, she shook her head and said firmly, "I believe I have made my intentions clear. I dislike having to go over old ground repeatedly, monsieur."

His eyes shifted to her then, anger flickering in the frigid depths.

"Can you not understand why I would have cause to doubt?"

"You have no cause to doubt me," she said, becoming angry herself. "I've only done all you've ever asked and more."

"It is humankind I doubt, every single one of them. What have they given me that I should allow them to trespass on the privacy of my own mind and body?"

"I mean no trespass! I ask nothing of you, and yet I'm giving you all!"

"And I don't know why," he said, not calmly at all, his voice rising in nearly a shout as he bent towards her. "And it confuses me, and I don't like it!"

She drew back a step, and an odd smile crossed her face. "Welcome to reality, sir. Confusion is the order of the day, Chaos sits on his worldly throne and all must, and do, bow to his will. I defy even the Phantom of the Opera to make sense of the confounded emotions in my wounded and inexplicable heart."

He stared at her a moment longer, then let out a sigh of yielding and turned away from her again.

"As for my family," she went on, steadily, "all that you see there are long dead. There is only my brother and me."

"And what of this brother?" Erik asked.

"He is— reconciled."

"He knows what I am?"

"He knows who you are," she corrected. "And he also knows who I am. Erik—" She paused, wetting her lips nervously and shifting her gaze from his form silhouetted in front of her to the floor. "There is something I must tell you. It is important, and may impact how you feel about me."

His shadowed form shook his head. "There is nothing that can dissuade you, there is nothing likewise that can dissuade me. I am content to take what I can where I find it, I would resent having more confusion heaped upon me, and therefore you must tell me nothing."

She tipped her head to one side, studying him; a slight laugh came to her as she found that he had almost exactly echoed her words and sentiments as stated earlier to Bram. She shook her head in wonder.

"We are," she said, "so much alike."

Erik's head tipped up and he turned his stern gaze on her once more. "Does that not frighten you, mademoiselle?"

"Perhaps it should frighten you," she retorted, and held out her hand. "Come, you must meet my brother."

He walked with her down the hall, letting her lead him; his hand, with hers carefully wrapped around it, was large, the fingers thin and cold even through the slim black leather of his gloves. She felt absently for a pulse in his wrist, and was chilled, though not quite surprised, when she was unable to locate one.

Finally, he and Bram looked straight at each other, each with an abbreviated bow. Bram eyed him up and down, taking his measure; Erik lowered his eyelids till he gazed only at the bedpost, looking as though he wondered how long he would be kept waiting. Finally, Bram cleared his throat.

"You are welcome, Monsieur Erik," he said, quietly. "I understand you are shortly to become my brother in law."

Erik stood silent, not even nodding an affirmation.

"I wish I could see it, Maggie," said Bram, reaching for his sister's hand.

She ran her fingers over the back of his hand, over his knuckles. "I know," she said.

"I would write you a song, as a wedding present; or find you a caged bird, perhaps, to keep as a pet." Bram eyed Erik once more. "Though, from what I hear, there will be others in your cage who sing well enough to suffice."

Erik's chin jerked slightly and he glanced up at Bram, pinning him with his eyes.

"What is this you speak of, young sir?"

"My sister's cage?" said Bram jovially. "Oh, don't you know that if once you are caught by Maggie's eyes, there is no escaping?"

"I was referring to what you had heard— what _have_ you heard of me?"

"No more than anyone else," said Bram. "It is just that stories tend to grow larger than life when they've reached me. I cannot fathom the reason, except possibly my decided talent for embellishment. But come now, yours is a tale that needs no embellishment, truly." He waited a moment, deciphering the meaning of Erik's deadly stare, before smiling and going on. "And no one will hear it from me, monsieur. There's no need for me to tell anyone of what happened— or what is yet to occur."

Their eyes met once more, and Erik inclined his head.

"And that," said Bram cheerfully, "is as close to a thank you as I will get."

The priest, rudely awoken and forced to dress and descend hastily, remembered that midnight ceremony as the living nightmare it was. With the time, the thunderous weather, the girl looking impossibly young and the man, if it was a man, a creature clothed entirely in darkness— he had the feeling that in performing the marriage ceremony he was uniting the virgin with the demon to which she had been sacrificed.

Erik was thinking the same thing, well aware of the stark contrast between Maggie and himself. His misgivings, however, were buried deep beneath layers of madness, convoluted arguments for and against, and the surety in Maggie's eyes as she said her fatal vows.

He had seen that surety before.

And as he slipped the golden ring onto her finger, deep inside he did not believe it was Margaret Blessing he took unto himself as living wife, but another.


	21. An End In Fire

**A/N: I'm going camping for eight days so this will be the last update for a while. Enjoy!**

**Chapter Twenty One: An End in Fire**

They walked in silence back towards her home.

Maggie's mind was a turmoil; the fact that only their footfalls marred the quiet of the early morning upset her deeply. This was her wedding night, then, the inability to speak plainly; the inability to speak at all. This was to be her marriage, for as long as Erik condescended to keep her around. This was her husband, this cold and deathly silent man, with eyes as blank and heart as hollow as a corpse's own. This was her husband, whose face she had not seen, who didn't want her love, only her assistance.

This was her choice, and it was made, it was made. She was married now, this simple golden ring proclaimed it to the wide world. And though her acquaintances might politely inquire as to the whereabouts of her husband, she would have to tell them he was from home, on a trip perhaps, anything but He is the Phantom of the Opera and has killed many men; he will not venture into society for anyone but Christine, whom he loves, and who escaped him as I could not.

For a moment she wondered if he felt as trapped, as stifled, as she did.

It was all wrong, somehow, and she wondered if, given the chance to take back the past few hours, she would not behave entirely differently. If she would not have let him leave her, never seen him again, lived her life in peaceful solitude. Why should she invite a stranger into her heart, if he was there only to break it, and her in the process?

The answer was simple. She hadn't a choice in the matter. And the question was settled for good; Erik was silent and Erik was brooding and foreboding, but it was by Maggie's side that he walked.

Gradually she argued herself into a better mood, shooting glances at him sideways from under her eyelashes. She still didn't dare to speak. Together they wended their way through the dark Parisian streets, their shadows stretched out in front of and then behind them as they passed the wide-spaced lanterns. She watched the alternations of light and dark, wondered what the day would bring; wondered, more than anything, what Erik was thinking. She couldn't bring herself to ask.

They came in absolute quiet to her flat.

Her hand shook slightly as she opened the door.

"Will you walk in, monsieur?" Her voice was low and faltered slightly, the perfect conductor from total silence to what slight noise might be made by desultory conversation; but Erik's head snapped up and his eyes blazed as though she'd screamed insults at him. For a moment he seemed able to do nothing but stare at her, and she could see the thoughts swimming through his mind as clearly as if his eyes truly were the windows to his soul. They were thoughts that came quite often to her own.

_What now?_

He cleared his throat.

"I will, madame."

_Madame._

She shut her brain down so she didn't have to think about it just then; just stood aside to let him pass, bowing her head slightly as a gesture of respect. He preceded her into the kitchen and settled himself once more in the chair he had taken upon his first entrance, so much earlier that night. Perhaps less visibly perturbed now, he was still mentally distraught; though his mind too was shutting down, shutting out the things he didn't wish to think about. She settled into the seat across from him; their eyes met and for the second time their thoughts were identical— what now?

She could no longer help herself, but slowly and quietly began to talk.

* * *

Early as it was, Christine de Chagny was awake, huddled in a quaking bundle in the large overstuffed armchair. She stared fixedly at the blazing fire before her, not truly seeing what was happening and yet taking it in on some level; the paper burned merrily, the books more sedate as they one by one gave up the ghost. The crisp black ink that once had marched so neatly across the page turned brown with the paper, then drifted into ash. The notes that she had read as clearly as words were gone forever, in the physical.

But they remained imprinted on her brain.

Her lips moved, silent in the heat that blazed through the room.

"Such madness and obsession cannot be normal; what has he done to you? Taken your wits along with your freedom? And now you would return to him? If Erik were handsome, Christine, would you love him?"

Gone now, piles upon piles of music, a young lifetime's worth spent perfecting a difficult art. Her only thought was to rid herself of any taint she could manage; yet she knew it was not enough.

She trembled at the thought of what remained in her heart and mind and soul.

Her husband found her this way when he came in. Face immediately ashen and aghast as he rushed forward to her, hands finding their way to her arm in a familiar gesture of worry as he gripped and probed the skin of her arm, pinching it gently between agitated fingers.

"Christine— are you alright? What— tell me what has happened?"

"We must go home," she whispered to him, two or three times.

With only a swift glance, Raoul acknowledged the empty fireplace; then his eyes returned to the still-smoking heap of ash on the carpet just underneath his young wife's feet. Bending, he picked up a single corner of paper that had escaped its fate, and brought it close to his face, blinking puzzledly.

"Christine— your music—"

"We must go home," she muttered to the chair, the bed, the walls.

"But darling," he said tenderly, lifting her hair from her face with his hand and settling it over the high back of the chair. "Your music— all of it. You've saved it for so long, I thought that when everything was taken care of—"

"I will never sing again!" she howled at him, a brief bright burst of fury that took him forcibly aback, so that he stepped away from her, eyes and mouth wide in surprise at the change that had overtaken her. She dashed tears away from her face as she looked at him, sorrow chasing the anger from her face almost immediately. "I'm sorry, Raoul— but I will never sing again." Her eyes drifted to the singed corner of paper that he still held, and then away; she pressed her face to the arm of the chair, rested her cheek on it like a tired child. Tears continued to seep their way down her face.

Raoul turned away from her, surveying the damage the fire had done to the floor, and he missed the frantic movements of her lips as she whispered a prayer to the only God she truly recognized in her heart.

"Erik, forgive me, for I have sinned—"

* * *

She told him something of her childhood, briefly, stumbling over the words, avoiding certain elements that were not appropriate for conversation. She told herself that one day he would hear even these parts, and the episodes that came after, and would know everything about her. Told herself that once Erik knew all there was to know, her entire life would be safe in his hands, and she could relax as that tremendous burden slipped from her shoulders.

But not now.

Now was not the time.

She watched him for some sign that he was interested, that he would carry on a conversation with her from his own will and preference; and saw, from time to time, that which she most wished for. A spark in Erik's eyes, a brief flame kindled. She told him of the journey from Ireland to France, and his shoulders hunched forward and he spoke.

"Are journeys quick, then?"

"Faster now than they were a few years ago, I'm bound," she said, rather pleasantly surprised that he had finally chosen to speak.

"I should like our journey to be as quick as possible," he said firmly. "I understand that one cannot control the wind and tides, but if we can make all available use of them, I would deeply appreciate it."

She smiled slightly. "I'm no experienced sea-traveler, you must understand, Erik. But I will try to arrange things that we may travel with every expediency."

"I would deeply appreciate it," he repeated, and inclined his head slightly. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him; she couldn't help but wonder, suddenly, what the face looked like underneath the mask. She'd heard such terrible rumors, mostly from Bram— but as for the reality, she had not a clue.

Thinking over it for a moment, she decided she still did not dare ask. Perhaps someday. But not now.

Hesitantly, she said, "If you would care to stay, I could easily find room for you."

Once again his head snapped up at this, and those eyes bored into her. With perfect control over his frosty voice, he said, "If you please, madame, I will go to my home. I wish to leave as soon as possible; if you would make the necessary arrangements, I would be indebted." He stood up in a smooth motion that drew her eye to his form; as he stood above her she nearly wept with the need to draw him to her and try and take away the pain in that cold and perfect voice.

But she simply stood up as well.

"I shall, of course, do my best," she said. She was on the verge of giving him her hand when he gave another short nod and walked from the room. Maggie heard the door close nearly silently behind him, and gave vent to a sob.

She drew her left hand up from her skirt pocket, to examine once more the ring.

"Married— and I could easily believe I had imagined it—"

But there was the little golden ring, on the proper finger.

And there, too, the crescent-shaped wounds she'd cut into the palms of her hands, digging with her fingernails, before and during and after the brief wedding ceremony; proof indeed that she was not as cool and certain as she may have seemed. She stared blankly at the blood, and made no move to wash it off. Come the morning, it too would serve as a reminder, which she was terribly afraid she would need.

In her mind, she was sure. Foolishly so.

"And if not a fool, what then?" she murmured through her tears, staring still at the blood on her hands. "Who but a fool would love such a man?"

Not all marriages are destined for happiness; she could no more entice love from Erik's heart than she could squeeze blood from a rock. She was sure of this as well.

It was both a horrible and a wonderful thing, it seemed to her, that this was not truly of any concern.


	22. Nightmare Town

Chapter Twenty Two: Nightmare Town

Christine spent the large part of that day drifting in and out of sleep, jostled by the movements of the coach, lulled by the steady turning of the wheels. She was going home, going home at last, and they could stay there, she and Raoul, until all memories of Erik were wiped from her mind.

He was there in her head, and his mocking eyes gave her the lie.

"Why do you run? You know I will follow."

"I run because there is no other choice," she returned, her eyes sad as they gazed into his. "I've nowhere else to go. Everywhere else belongs to you, but my homeland— my homeland belongs to Raoul and I, and you cannot penetrate those long-held defenses."

"Not even with help?" he inquired, his voice silky. Her eyes fluttered open and she stared for a few brief seconds at the real, live world around her— Raoul's jacket against her face, she lay on his shoulder, his head back against the wall of the coach, the springs underneath the cushion beneath her jabbing at every other bump they went over, the creaking and jingling of the harness and the hookings that held the coach to the horses— and then returned to the world that existed only in her head. Erik waited for her there, as always.

"Help?" she repeated, uncertain, bemused, but he had moved on.

He swept aside a cobwebbed curtain, showed her what was there behind. She and Raoul as children, so small and so young, eyes clear and unclouded as yet; childish kisses, innocent and chaste.

"Is that what you want?" he said in her ear. "Such sterile, innocent pleasures as that boy can give you? Such miserable leftovers of life; while all the world feasts on love, you have the half-heart of this puppy. While all the world holds the soul of its loved one in the palm of its hand, you wait in vain for your husband to come home. Is that what you grew up dreaming of, my dear? Was your childish head filled with such fancies?"

"At any rate I never dreamed of a coffin, a tomb," she answered, studying the floor and not looking up at him. She let her voice carry a conviction that her eyes could not; every young girl dreams at some point of the darkest love the world has ever known, and every innocent heart wonders what would occur, should a twist in fate land them in the hands of a cruel mercenary.

"What has he given you, that he should deserve such devotion?" Erik asked her.

She thought long and hard about this question. "A family," she said. "A place in the sun. His eyes are kind and his touch is warm."

When she looked up into Erik's unmasked face, the sheer rage that met her there was unlike anything she'd ever seen before. As she moved in her sleep, and gave a quiet, low moan of terror, she awoke her husband, who'd been dozing off next to her.

Raoul de Chagny looked down at his sleeping wife, lashes long upon her pale cheeks, face turned slightly worn over the past few days, her arm placed protectively over her belly. He smiled gently, leaned down to brush his lips across her forehead; at the contact, she shuddered and leaned away from him to rest in the opposite corner of the coach, her arms coming up to cover her head as if warding off a blow from an unseen assailant. He watched her in some consternation, and wondered what it was that had brought about this return to a condition she'd not been in for two years.

Yes, she had told him that— he frowned in distaste— _he_ was coming for her. Yes, she had quite clearly been frantic to get out of Paris. But what was the real reason? He was quite sure that Erik was dead; he was quite sure that there must be more to this.

But— was it even possible—?

He frowned once more, watching his bride of two years twitch and mutter.

It bothered him, that there was something other than terror when she spoke of him— something deeper, a sort of awe, a night-dark love.

No, it could not be possible. He would take Christine to a doctor when they arrived at their home; medicine could be in order. Along with that, familiar surroundings should complete the cure. He was confident that, once again, he could make Christine forget.

"And if it comes to that," he said aloud, "I refuse to envy a corpse."

Alive or dead, he thought with satisfaction, that epithet applied to Erik quite well.

Maggie had expected Erik to arrive at her apartment the next day, making demands and hurrying her along. She found to her surprise that he didn't appear willing to show his face at all, and was only able to see him when she walked to the Opera House in the warm, mellow light of late afternoon. She was obliged to loiter around the shadowed side entrance for a bit before the street was clear, waiting to duck inside so as not to attract any attention. Watching a few people out of sight around the corner, she leaned back against a streetlamp and gazed upwards into the slowly darkening sky, watching the moon emerge like a magician's trick.

Very soon now, she would be the same woman on a different street, a different city, gazing at the same moon. Perhaps next time, she would not be standing alone.

She entered the Opera Populaire, and was not surprised to find Erik waiting for her, a tall, thin shadow detaching itself from the nest of darkness that clung to every available surface.

"I hate this place," she said, surprising both of them.

"You shall not be asked to remain here," he said, folding his arms and looking down at her sideways. "What have you to tell me?"

"We can leave in two days," she replied, biting her lip thoughtfully. "Have you other arrangements to make, for luggage and such?"

"No more than a valise or two, perhaps," he replied, and his manner seemed unwarrantedly guarded. She put her hands on her hips.

"I really must tell you," she said, "if you intend to impress on Madame de Chagny that you have made a happy life without her, you cannot treat your wife as a total stranger. You cannot shut me out."

He sighed harshly and stepped away from her.

"I am as new at this game as you are, Madame," he said pointedly. "You must give me time to adjust. I am not known for my social skills."

"Indeed not," she agreed. "Well, and neither am I, sir— perhaps we shall both have to learn together, no?"

"I'll thank you not to take liberties."

"Pardon me," Maggie retorted, "I don't believe I took one. Let me give you this test of your convictions." She held out one hand towards him. "Take my hand in yours."

The look in his eyes was indescribable. It made her, crazily, want to laugh.

"Come on. It should not be painful to either one of us."

"Madame—"

"Maggie. Or Margaret. Take my hand."

After another moment of hesitation, he reached out, hand moving with incredible slowness and unspeakable grace, curving an arc through the air, till the tips of his fingers touched the tips of hers. She hid a flinch at the coolness of his skin, instead allowing a smile to replace the look of command that had, however briefly, appeared on her face. Their fingers described small circles around each other, the skin barely touching, her warmth meeting his cold and transmuting some of its heat. After a bit, he brought his hand up to his face to examine it, as though she had done something to it which had to be seen to be believed.

"I have a request to beg of you," she breathed, watching him with interest.

"Ask it," he said, voice hollow.

"I would ask you to sing to me, Erik— as a wedding present."

His eyes traveled gradually from the minute examination of his own flesh, across the small space between them that she closed as she spoke, and lighted on her face. "I shall," he said.

"And one other—"

"What do you ask of me, Margaret?"

"I should like to see underneath the mask," she said, her voice steady even as she felt her heartbeat falter. His eyes bored into hers, a look of such incredible anger and something more, too— fear, perhaps? But what could he fear? Her reaction?

Did he fear that if she saw his face, she would leave him forever?

As she watched him, she saw that he could possibly become very angry indeed, and that she wouldn't like that to happen.

"You must never ask that of me," he said deliberately. "Promise me, Margaret."

She bit her tongue once, twice, narrowing her eyes at him, trying to find a way out of giving her word. He waited avidly for her response, however, and clearly there was no way around it. "Very well," she said finally. "Although I should like to, I will not ask it of you."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

He relaxed slightly.

It was some small consolation to her that they had, at least, progressed to the point where he respected her word; it given could bring him relief, and it withheld could bring him disquiet. Then he began to sing, and for an hour she thought of nothing but the sound of his voice, and the light, almost imperceptible touch of his fingers.


	23. Long Day's Journey

Chapter Twenty-Three: Long Day's Journey

The entire trip, she would not leave him be. She seemed afraid he would wander off, unsupervised, and find himself in some trouble, stranded among strangers in a foreign land. She didn't know that as he walked the cobbles in the towns, the packed dirt around the coaches when there was a break in the ride, he could feel the familiarity straight through the soles of his shoes; that when, from a distance, he watched her negotiate, competent, assured, his eyes slid closed as he remembered slipping his way silent, silent past the men who guarded the gangway to a ship, silent past the clutching arms of those who would keep him from his way. What had they wanted, he wondered— nothing more, perhaps, than to keep him from escaping, from terrorizing anyone else, in any other countries. There was no telling what a creature of his sort could do, because there had never been anyone like him. Unique, he was. No precedent. Mankind fears the strange and unknown, and Erik was nothing if not that.

He knew this, logically, intellectually— anger at them all, everyone who had ever tried to keep him from his way, curled his fingers into his palms, digging long nails deep into the skin. His hands were not his weapon of choice; he preferred to have some extension to them, to keep some distance between himself and the others. The others, he called them in his mind; his victims, they truly were, and he knew it. He wondered what the girl— Margaret, his _wife_— would say if he told her how they looked as their last breath slipped from their lips, as the movements of their chests shallowed, and their eyes froze. It was rarely far from his mind; the thought that perhaps it wasn't the weapon that choked them, but fear of him clogging their throat, steadily separating them from their lives.

How had he gotten here?

What was he doing here?

He was forcibly recalled to himself by Maggie, who clambered into the carriage beside him, too tired to be graceful. She sank into the seat at his side, sheltering him against the wall of the carriage, herding him into the corner. He shifted slightly, moving further from her, though she didn't appear to notice; she simply turned to him, a tired smile appearing on her lips.

"Last leg of the journey," she said. "We've only a few with us at this time of night, so less to worry about there."

He nodded, silent. She watched him.

"If there's anything you need to say to me, now would be the perfect time to say it," she said. "Before we are joined and our company is expanded."

His eyes left the shadowy corner across from him and drifted up to hers.

"I don't know who you think I am," he said. She waited— surely there would be more to this? It took a moment— Erik took in a deep breath before he finished.

"But I am not that man."

Maggie made a great show of relaxing, her smile becoming bright and rather forced. "If it comes to that, Monsieur, I highly doubt that I am who you think I am, either."

"Who do you think I think you are?" Erik asked, eyes narrowed.

"I don't know, because you will not tell me. Rest assured, before we get drawn any deeper into a conversation that will be confusing to us both and unwelcome to the others we will shortly be joined by, that in all likelihood, both of our expectations of each other are probably going to be proved entirely wrong, and what we assume about each other—" She paused and took in breath. "Will most likely be wrong as well." The smile returned, still bright, but less forced. "On that note, I would like to try and get some sleep before we arrive. Do you mind?"

"As you like," replied Erik diffidently, and leaned further into his corner. She did not attempt to shuffle closer, as he anticipated, but instead leaned her head back against the wall behind her and shut her eyes with a quiet sigh. He was left to the disturbing company of his own thoughts, but he was quite used to them. He only removed his gaze from Maggie's peaceful face when the door opened up once more and their fellow passengers began to enter the coach; then, he swiftly turned his face to the wall, tossing his cape over his shoulder to muffle his chin and throat, and pulling his hat down over his face to do what he could to conceal the mask. A double protection; double layers between himself and the world. Still he worried that he would be seen, and somehow was almost grateful when Maggie, asleep now, slid sideways and nestled her face against his shoulder. They were getting sleepy but approving glances from the elderly woman across from them, and blank stares from everyone else. It was quite late, Erik realized, and everyone was undoubtedly tired out— he wondered briefly if they had been traveling as extensively as he had.

The thought struck him that in a very few hours they would be in the same town as Christine, and he was unable to think of anything else for a long while.

Maggie, meanwhile, dreamed.

Her brother Bram, left behind under the care of a neighbor and the affectionate eyes (and hands, and mouth) of Felicity, appeared in her dream, to smile gently and warn her from her path. The path, she could see, was made of white stone; it stretched in front of her as an endless expanse which she must travel, while on either side of her was such a darkness that she couldn't fathom there being an end to it. Far at the end of the path was a bright light; on either side of the narrow stretch the darkness leapt and howled.

He warned her.

"_Jump."_

To follow the straight-ahead and rely on herself? To leap to one side and allow the darkness to fold her in its cold embrace?

To stay where she was, static, unmoving, eyes endlessly wide open to see her choices remain unmade, eternally fearing that which she didn't know?

It is the custom of mankind to fear the strange and unknown. Maggie, with her penchant for doing the unexpected in any given situation, had married it instead.


	24. The Threshold

Chapter Twenty Four: The Threshold

They arrived sometime in the dawn, the city having broken like a misbegotten sun over the horizon a scant half hour earlier. She marveled that they had arrived so quickly, according to the calendar, when to her it seemed to have lasted forever. Perhaps it was the trip, for traveling certainly took a lot out of you. Perhaps it was the company.

She turned to Raoul with something less than amiableness.

"To our house, quickly."

"They won't be ready for us," said Raoul, his expressive face showing dismay. "You know it has been some time since we were there; we cannot ask the servants to have everything in order in so short a time. We will go to a hotel."

"No, Raoul!" He stiffened with annoyance at her direct contradiction of what he'd said, but Christine's voice held something akin to desperation, and he saw that her face was white and strained. "I need to be home," she whispered. "I must go home."

Grudgingly, Raoul gave the order to the coachman, who whipped up the horses and then hunched back into his cloak muttering grimly against the cold. Raoul settled back against the seat, half-turned towards his young wife, who was looking paler and more unhappy by the moment. He wondered what there was going on inside that head, behind those vast blue eyes; he wondered if there was, in fact, much happening there at all. Tentatively he reached out a hand towards her; brushing his fingers lightly over her cheek, running up towards her hair, back down to finger the lobe of her ear. She leaned into the touch, her eyes slipping closed and a sigh escaping her.

They did not touch like this any more; that had stopped some time ago. Two years ago, he thought grimly; just after they were married, and she had the first of the dreams. He knew that Erik came to her in those dreams, though he didn't know what happened in them; knew only that she was skittish in the extreme afterwards, and that she couldn't bear to be touched, even with a gentle hand. She would let him share her bed in the fullest sense of the phrase, and he was determined to be content with that.

It was just that— well. He was a gentleman, and if given the chance, he would have killed Erik for taking that happiness from him, in the most gentlemanly-like manner possible.

He often thought, when he was alone, of what actions he should have taken two years ago, upon first learning about the Phantom that haunted the Opera Populaire. Haunted— hah. A series of party tricks, the work of a two-penny magician and a side-show freak, preying upon the weak-minded and the naive, counting on the cover of darkness to hide his deeds from discovery. Raoul was not a bad man, although he was rather a weak one; he sank downwards into dark reflections on what should have, could have, might have been; his fingers twitched.

She startled him out of his reverie by sitting up suddenly, knocking his hand carelessly from its tentative position on the junction between her neck and shoulder. "I've changed my mind, Raoul," she said rapidly. "Perhaps it would, after all, be better to go to the hotel for a few days. Give the maids a chance to clean, thoroughly, make ready for our arrival. Surely we did not give them enough notice."

His eyes returned to her nearly-vague gaze, and once again he wondered what was going on inside her head.

"Of course, my dear," he said soothingly, his hand creeping back to pet her hair rhythmically. She shuddered slightly but he only took this as encouragement. "We'll put up at a hotel; surely one will accommodate us for a short time." Breathing out half a sigh, he kept the hint of relief out of his voice, but it was a strain.

Christine's mind was a storm, and her sense of right and wrong rode it like a small and beleaguered boat. On the one hand was the certainty that they weren't safe, even here, that if they went to her home, Erik would find them— he could always find her. He'd never truly lost track of her, she thought, perhaps he could even see her every moment— and she gave a deep shudder. But on the other side of her conscience was that terrible, terrible uncertainty of whether or not she wanted to be found.

One of these times, will it perhaps go differently?

Life was a series of mistakes, steps made to the left when she should have turned her feet to the right. Her husband's hands were on her now, but it was Erik's name that stayed always on her lips, never more than half a second from being uttered in her usual litany of prayer, and that terrible mask glinted in the dark behind her closed eyelids. _All this life in me, and I so young— yes, I am uncertain of what will catch me up next, but some uncertainties are blessed and welcome. _

And so she argued with herself again and again; to go straight home and wait for him there, dreading and loving every hour that went by? To go to a hotel and perhaps postpone her discovery for a few days? The hotel, and her horror of what would happen when she saw him again, won out.

Raoul, for his part, knew that his mistress would be well gone when they finally arrived; and was, like a coward, glad of it.

Days, miles, and emotions behind the Vicomte de Chagny and his young wife traveled the strange newlyweds who could never share a glance for more than a moment. They reached the sleeping city of Christine Daae's birth (and her death, also, for it was here that she became a wife to Raoul) and had proceeded, exhausted, to an inn. Maggie went forth to wrangle sleeping accommodations with the keeper, leaving Erik outside to focus on his breathing and hide on the far side of the building.

She came back out rather irritated, and hunted about for him till he made his presence known.

"The owner's wife is to be avoided," she instructed waspishly. "She is insufferably curious and will no doubt be inspecting the garbage pail for letters, the sheets to see if we slept between them, the soap to see if we washed correctly— avoid her, Erik, or she'll have that mask off directly and satisfy all our curiousities."

Erik did not reprimand her for this reference to his mask, as she expected; he merely draped his thin arms about himself and looked up into the pitch-black sky, his mouth firming in some unspoken decision. She watched him, watched his eyes flutter half-closed, watched the frontlights of the inn shine dimly reflected within them, watched his mouth that had produced that hypnotic, angelic, accursed music that drew her in and sealed her fate and gave her hope.

She realized all at once that she was staring, and he was shivering.

A light touch on his arm; his eyes slid down to her and she wasn't sure if he saw her at all.

"Come," she said quietly. "Its warm inside."

She led him through the main room of the inn, heading directly for the back door that led to the stairs, and ignoring the openly curious glances of the innkeeper's wife. There were few patrons in the bar, which fact she could thank for their swift entrance and exit without interference by unfriendly hands. She towed Erik behind her up the stairs, and paused at the door.

"I—" A deep breath was in order, and quiet whispering as she saw a shadow at the foot of the stairs that indicated listening ears. "I was only able to get the one room after all."

His eyes flared in the dim light, and he opened his mouth to speak. Swiftly she covered it with her hand, pushed open the door, and led him across the threshold.

"Listen to me, Erik," she begged, closing the door behind her and facing him once more. "I know things are awkward, and things seem wrong, but I'm your wife, and you must treat me as such among strangers. Don't you understand, they are rough here, uncivilized; if the men downstairs thought I had no one to protect me, I could be the victim in more ways than you could fathom. And I cannot take that again. I cannot. I need you, Erik; please."

With careful, cold fingers he removed her hand from his mouth, turned and took a few steps into the room, surveying it with evident distaste. It was small and poorly lit; the unenthusiastic fire in the grate provided little warmth and much smoke; the bed was scarcely the width of two bodies, and essayed an unencouraging creak when he prodded at it. He turned back to her, mouth set carefully in lines of thoughtfulness.

"What do you mean, 'again'?"

Maggie bit her lip.

The silence between them stretched on and on, growing thinner and more awkward with each moment. Erik's eyes looked her up and down, calculating, deciphering, weighing and balancing—_ and found wanting._ The voice in her head was sharp and familiar; it poked her with nasty little fingers and laughed a nasty little laugh. She bit her lip harder, hard enough to draw blood, and turned her head away, closing her eyes over the tears that slipped down her cheeks.

When at last she trusted herself to look up again, it was to find Erik uncapping a flask that he had drawn from somewhere on his person. He raised it to his lips, a small space between the edge of the flask and the surface of his mouth, and tipped back his head.

The amber liquid sparkled even in the dim light of the room.

Her gasp of horror was clearly audible in the silence, and the flask was struck from his hand with a ferocity that he didn't realize could come from the small white hands of his newly-wedded bride.


	25. A Fine Bright Mess

A/N: Finally got to the plot point I came up with three chapters into it... been a long time sitting on it. However, I'm gone till the end of the month, so this is the last update for a while. Also, anyone who can tell me what else Erik likes with his Scotch gets... well, a big hug, or something.

Chapter Twenty-Five: A Fine Bright Mess

For some moments they stood still, so immobile that she wasn't sure if she was breathing at all. Perhaps she wasn't. She wasn't aware of any movement, any sound, any sight other than the wideness of his eyes that showed he was surprised, his lower lip caught between his teeth, so still he looked frozen. Suddenly there was a great roaring in her ears as she realized exactly how rash her action had been. Her heart began to beat again, and with it came a flood of shame.

The flask had thrown an arc of liquid across the floor and onto the coverlet over the bed; it hit the edge of the bed and slid down to land on the floor with a hollow, solid thunk, creating a small but gradually-growing puddle around it. Her eyes drew to it, unknowingly, seeking solace from the frozen anger of his gaze.

She whispered, "I'm sorry!" and bent over the mess, dabbing at it with the hem of her traveling cloak ineffectively, unsure of what to do but aware of a deep need to make up for what she'd done, to erase that look from his face. She'd surprised him; she could tell he wasn't exactly fond of being surprised, in this or any other manner.

"Why did you do that?" he said. She twitched at the sound of his voice, an involuntary movement quite close to a wince, as though she expected to be hit. She didn't think he would— dangerous he might be, but did she really think he was capable of killing her for no reason at all?

She forced her mind away from that question before she came up with an answer for it.

He didn't sound angry, and this surprised her; surprised her and worried her. What was going on in that mind? Was he— could he be— nothing but honestly curious?

Her eyes crept up to meet his; she wanted to know.

Erik wanted to know, too. Though his was the sort of personality that found it hard to focus on anything but his own purpose, he was also perceptive when he wanted to be; he regarded Maggie— his wife, after all— with a sort of self-aware confusion, unsure of why she was there, unsure of how he was supposed to react to her continued presence. It was easy with Christine— he knew where he was with her— obsession gave him clean edges, definite purposes, sharp contrasts: here was Christine, and here was Erik, and here was the rest of the world. It was that third category that baffled him, and Maggie fell under that label, marked merely as Unknown. Still, he'd noticed hints of something deep beneath the surface, couldn't help but see the way she held back from touching everyone but her brother. He'd seen her flinch merely under the weight of his gaze; he'd seen her shy away from being brushed against in crowds; he wondered, now and then, if she too had sought out an opera house to hide under, sometime in the past.

Everything was relative, related to his own experiences and his own knowledge of the world; he couldn't fathom why she had kept him from drinking from the flask, and he wanted to know. New knowledge was acceptable, now and then.

"Why did you do that?" he repeated, and her eyes fell from his. She stood and moved to the washstand in one corner, gathering up the tattered towel and returning to dab at the puddle of liquid on the floor. The question was repeated once more, and she still just shook her head. Erik sighed and sat down in the hard-backed, uncomfortable chair against the wall.

"You are content to keep secrets," he stated. "That is fine with me. I would not ask you to reveal something you would rather keep to yourself; after all, I expect you to have the same courtesy for me."

A brusque nod from Maggie, and he didn't see that she dashed wayward tears away from her eyes. He merely continued, slouched in the chair quite unlike his natural poise, half-closed eyes focused on the floor in front of him.

"After all," he said, "after all, there is much which you must not know about me, Margaret. Which no one must know. I see no need to frighten you away from me, when you are being so very useful." He gave a dusty chuckle and Maggie took a deep, sudden breath. "It is lucky you came along," he added further, sounding thoughtful, as though he hadn't quite realized it till just now. "It is lucky for me, indeed."

She swallowed, and it hurt her. "How so?"

"To give me some extra cover from the world that enables me to follow Christine—" he said. "Yes, I confess myself grateful, Margaret, that you do this thing for me."

Maggie nearly laughed. It was bitter to have his thanks in this way, and she sought to change the subject. "I doubt you could frighten me from your side, Erik— not that I am so loyal that nothing would deter me, but I don't believe that you have done anything so horrible."

His head came up then and his eyes pierced hers as she finally gave him her attention, her face now carefully placid.

"You think I have done nothing horrible?" he repeated. "You are a foolish and misguided girl."

"No such thing. I was told some of your escapades, the things which you were responsible for." She shrugged, mopping up the last of the liquid and rising agilely to her feet once more to toss the scotch-soaked towel into the basin. "I admit it is not what many would have done; perhaps the general populace would have more control over themselves." He stiffened and she hid a smile, seeing clearly that she had annoyed and insulted him.

"I have frightened many and made a legend of myself," he hissed between his teeth, his eyes narrowed at her in a ferocious glare. "The fact that you have heard of me, you impudent child, is veritable proof of what I am, of how people think of me."

"I'm well aware of that," she offered, and shrugged. "I simply have a different view of things, I suppose."

"Is that so?" said Erik lowly. "Perhaps you would care to tell me why?"

She sank onto the bed. "You keep asking me why. Perhaps I should ask you the same thing, monsieur."

Another breath taken in, hissed out between his teeth, the glare turning thoughtful.

"You're clever, I suppose," he said, "but not quite as clever as you should be, if you think I have done nothing so horrible. Nothing so horrible, madame— were I to tell you, I daresay you would run from me. Race out that door. It is not merely the tales you have been told about my actions in the Opera Populaire; I am older than you may realize, Margaret, and my life has not been without stain, my honor without compromise."

"I believe you," she said quietly; she seemed to be thinking. But Erik went on, drawn into his memories by the sound of his own voice.

"I have traveled before," he said, "to many countries— not for a long time, I confess. I made many acquaintances, not one of which was happy or fortunate. I searched for those that could further my own purpose in the world, taught at an early age that I would never find someone to accept me, that my only hope was to take what I could. I was trained from watching petty criminals, sideshow villains; no one wished to get close enough to teach me on their own. But I was as quick then as I am now— there were no secrets to getting ahead that I could not ferret out."

She looked up at him and saw that his gaze, fixed on her, was now drawn inward.

"I don't believe you would be like that," she said quietly, "if things were different."

He returned to her at once.

"What of it? It is how I am. There's no changing that now."

"I don't believe that you have such wickedness in your blood, in your heart," she said, almost desperately, "that, had you been born as plain as me, you would have pursued the same course. I don't believe that there is such badness in you as to cancel out the good entirely."

He spread his arms, looking angry and almost baffled at her denial of his complicity in his own actions. "You've seen the results— or heard of them, at any rate."

She shook her head, and the tears escaped her fingers this time and slid down her cheeks. "There must have been a turning point," she said helplessly. "When you were headed for the right path, and someone came from behind and turned you a sharp left."

His bafflement was obvious now, his anger growing. He didn't like to be told what or how or why he was. Maggie was beyond noticing.

"Someone changed you," she said. "Or several someones— I am not saying it was not your fault at all, merely that things— oh, things could have been so very different—"

_You confuse me_, Erik mouthed, but his voice was lost from his lips as he stared at her, watching

as she grew more agitated.

"Perhaps you could help it to some degree, but it was more than you— more than your fault! More than your doing." She closed her eyes. "I know how it is."

Anger won out over interest, and Erik rose from his chair, eyes narrowing once more, voice deliberate.

"You compare yourself to me, woman? Of all the foolish things to do— you compare yourself with a man such as I? A _monster_ such as _I_?" He crept closer to her, eyes aglow. "If you knew the things that I have done— if you knew the things I have wanted to do!"

"You are human," she said, "nothing more, nothing less."

"I am hunted," he said, feverishly, "hunted like an animal— and I seek out what holes I can, to hide myself away in. I've been denied every right you can think of, which any human man would have access to at birth. There is nothing proper or correct about me— my thoughts, my works, all are twisted beyond recognition. I've frightened, I've threatened, I've harried, I've destroyed— you compare yourself with _me_, madame? An act of outright stupidity. I've _murdered_, Margaret— taken lives, ruined hearts and minds."

He stopped at last, coming back to the situation, half-expecting her to be flinched from him, hands up to ward him off; half-expecting her to be out the door already, gone, not likely to return. He did not expect to find that she had stopped her tears and was regarding him with a cool practicality that he had never seen from anyone.

"So have I," she said, with infinite calm.


	26. Confession

Chapter Twenty Six: Confession

He took in the spectacle, the novelty, of the young woman who stood before him, unafraid and trembling with the release of her own secrets. He wasn't quite sure what to believe— he did not think Maggie likely to lie, but neither did he think her capable of committing the act that would categorize this outburst as truth. He watched her while she composed herself, taking a series of deep breaths that would fuel some explanation. Gradually he realized that he was comparing her to Christine, in a physical way this time, though he'd often thought of the differences between the two of them mentally— ruddy hair instead of pale, fair skin but without the translucent splendor of Christine's; shorter and rounder and capable-handed, the embodiment of setting goals and giving all to achieve them, where Christine was waiflike, hollow except when filled with music, curled around a vast empty space that only he suspected. Christine was infinitely the more beautiful, the more alluring, the more desirable of the two; Erik felt his lip curling. Yet, as Maggie herself had said, it was she who stood before him now, empty-handed and full-hearted, and not Christine. Christine had been taken, and undoubtedly some of her hollow, untouched naivete had been irrevocably lost. It was true that when he saw her last, her stigma of girlhood had not been noticeably present.

Was that what he wanted, then? For her to always to remain the same, just out of the reach, that untouchable child? Even for Erik, as for any man, it was a hard idea to entertain, a hard concept to consider.

He doubted that Maggie had ever been anything other than a full-fledged woman.

He watched her now with something like baffled amusement in his eyes; somehow the situation had gone past its original vital feeling and now held, for him, more the flavor of farce. For Maggie, yet, it still held that same importance as at first; she thought it was, it must be, her first real chance to get through to him. She didn't know that he was hiding a smirk; she only knew that his eyes were still on her, and he was listening, and the never-ending sound of his voice in her head had at long last ceased. He was waiting.

She stumbled over her words, trembling, trying to keep emotion at bay.

"You know my brother— you've met my brother."

"Bram," Erik prompted, with inconceivable gentility.

"My little brother, Bram. We grew up together, you see; best friends from the day he was born. I would carry him till he learned to walk, and speak for him till he learned words, and I stood in awe of his voice when he began to talk. It was obvious at once that he would be a bard, a born storyteller, for as a child he made even the most accomplished of tale-spinners sound like men of no more than ordinary speech." She spoke of her brother, and love softened the hard light in her eyes to a dull flicker like a diminished flame, love soothed the roughness of her voice and lent her something like dignity in Erik's unwavering gaze. "I loved him so; he saw me through— through everything, you must understand. Everything."

Her eyelids fluttered upwards, her gaze met Erik's for a moment, then she returned to gazing at the floor, twisting the cloth in her hands.

"Men— I have such innate contempt for men, excepting Bram, and yourself, of course, monsieur. They have brought all the badness I've experienced into my life; and what is worse, the evil doesn't follow them back out of it. No, it remains as a reminder of their former presence. And I can't do anything about it. So frustrating, Erik, you cannot comprehend, so frustrating."

His lips moved a bit, soundlessly forming the words that he comprehended only too well— that, for him, it was both men and women who brought the troubles. It was everyone, without exception, Maggie included among their number. Everyone.

"And Bram, though I love him so, is no more immune to masculine stupidity than the rest of them. His association was perhaps not as good as it could have been. He was struggling, as a bard, though he was the best in our area. When he was paid for his appearances it was a cause for celebration, as you can well understand. He would go out with his mates, go out to the pubs. Come home a bit drunk— reeling drunk, if you want the truth of it. It was just him and me, even then. Our parents long gone, my uncle— long gone. The biggest amount he ever received, the most— well, it all went into the inn owner's pockets, and the result was all in Bram's mates' stomachs. Bram held himself back that night, as he sometimes did, waiting to get home and celebrate a bit with me on our own. But his mates drank free." She had lost some of her composure, a bit— she began to pace.

"They walk home," she said, softly. "Walk home along the streets, and Bram trips up, and he falls. He's in the street, ankle twisted. Trying to get up. They all thought it was funny." She glanced up at Erik again, not to gauge his reaction, but to look for some sort of answer she thought he might be able to give. "They thought it was funny, you see, and when the cart came they were too busy laughing to give my brother a hand up. They managed to get him to the doctor's. Had to wake the doctor up, of course, as he was trying to sleep his own evening off. Hadn't quite managed when they bring in Bram, crying and bleeding and broken. Broken."

Erik was very still, watching her and waiting. It was perhaps wise of him merely to hold his tongue, where many men would make some attempt at consolation, but he wasn't thinking of this. It was just that there were no words, presently, at his disposal. He didn't know what to say. And Maggie was creating her own solitary world, one where his approval or attention wasn't required or requested. Her eyes were very faraway now.

"He would have been alright, you see, if anyone concerned had kept their wits. He would have healed, in time. Bones can be set; what is broken can be fixed." There was a blind faith in her tone, and while Erik said roughly, "Not everything broken can be fixed," she didn't appear to hear him.

"I admit I was angry," she said. "I believe I had an excuse to be angry. They bring home my brother, my beautiful damaged Bram, and I see red, I tell you, blood red splashed bright on the walls."

Erik blinked, then kept his eyes closed, gritted his teeth. Quite abruptly, his own visions of red had crept up on him, as they so often did, and the sudden strength of his kinship to Maggie startled him even more than the anger that surged up through his bones.

"And that night I fought," Maggie confessed, bowing her head. "I fought against what had happened in the only way I know how. Women's warfare is more of words than action, but I've brought myself round to a different way of thinking. I set fire to his house, this doctor who had taken Bram's freedom along with his mobility. He was a right target, more clearly so than Bram's friends. He'd done this to him. I went with a torch, and set flame, and watched it burn."

Erik's eyes opened slowly, for he knew what it felt like to set things aflame, just as he also knew what it was to burn.

"I didn't know he wouldn't get out," said Maggie softly. "He or his family."

"Would not?" asked Erik softly. "Or could not?"

"No one could ever tell." There was an almost imperceptible movement of her shoulders; an abbreviated shrug, cut short as she realized what she was doing. The tears resumed, her face crumpling like a hurt child's, her body following suit as she folded in on herself and went, knees first, to the floor. She lay curled on her side, arms wrapped around herself as though she wanted desperately to get warm, and tears made her whole face wet.

Erik bent slowly, downwards to her, and with the very tips of his fingers smoothed along the teartracks on her cheek. He looked almost curious, as though no one had ever cried in his presence; something which certainly wasn't so. He'd never seen tears quite like this, though.

It was a strange realization to have, that though he'd known all humans to be capable of great cruelty, that he was not the only one ever to have killed.

* * *

She awoke to dreams and visions and wept on her pillow till it was drenching wet. Try as he might, he could not console her, and grew frustrated with this inability on his part, or perhaps with her refusal to take comfort, and went angrily down the stairs to find sleeping quarters elsewhere. She cried, and spoke of seeing her father standing at the foot of the bed, spoke of watching his gentle smile be replaced by a hellish fury that she couldn't understand. She talked on and on and didn't know that there was no longer anyone in the room to listen.

The morning came and she saw the light, believed something to have been taken from her, and there was blood on the pristine white sheets.


	27. Awakenings

A/N: Hopefully this'll clear some things up. Apparently I confused almost everyone with the ending of the last chapter.

Chapter Twenty Seven: Awakenings

It was still dark when he left, having slept only a little. In the cool of the air he could sense the morning's advent, taste the foreign dawn on his tongue. Around him there was the smell of promise, he could feel it on the breeze.

A morning like this led unmistakably to that age-old feeling he'd had so often in Christine's presence, a feeling that made him shy away inside and curl into himself. For normal men, he assumed, it must come in the evening as they wended their way up the stairs, accompanied by their nighttime companions. But for Erik, the morning was his evening, the nightfall his dawn, as he'd spent most of his life hiding away during daylight hours. As he watched the first light from the sun, he felt the undeniable tinges of his own unholy lust.

He'd left Maggie sleeping, curled in a ball on the very edge of the bed. She'd made sure to make room for him even as she cried herself to sleep, but it had been an unnecessary concern on her part, for he hadn't taken advantage of the narrow stretch of dingy sheet, the age-hardened, musty straw mattress. Instead he had stayed perched on his chair, watchful and waiting. He could almost suspect Maggie of having an entirely different life while she was asleep; her revelations had startled and shaken him more than he wanted to admit to anyone, even to himself. So he decided it was best he let her stay on her own for a while, and went out alone into the dawn. To search.

To feel.

He wrapped his arms about himself and leaned against the wall. He stood at the back of the inn, under the windows, away from the eyes of any early-risers there might have been. The advancing sun, still hidden beneath the horizon, turned the sky a brilliant crimson, the clouds into streaks of gilt, the land even darker alongside the light. To most men, the haphazard collection of buildings would have been nothing but black shapes and silhouettes; Erik, though, could make out the shingles that swung from the doorways and proclaimed the purpose of each shop and establishment, poorly painted signs with odd lettering that he was doubtful of his ability to read, though the primitive depictions beneath lent him some insight as to what they meant. He pushed himself away from the wall and walked towards them, still wrapped tight in his cloak, a hunched black form of no definite shape.

Out there was Christine, no longer young. Touched by time, perhaps wisened a little; perhaps not. He thought ruefully of their early days when he first began to tutor her, to transfer to her the benefit of his knowledge of song, and of the young child who listened so ardently, wide-eyed and silent. The young child who called him her Angel.

There were many kinds of angels. He'd never told her.

Oh, she'd grown up, and he could still feel the shock, the jolt, of looking at her and realizing suddenly that the child was no more; that, in her place, stood a young woman, no less in awe of him, and no more capable of giving him her love. Something, perhaps, that he'd realized from the beginning. Something that he was, even now, unwilling to admit.

He could see her quite clearly, still unaware of her changing figure, of how beautiful her features truly were. Erik earnestly valued her singing voice, but though he'd denied his humanity on several occasions, he was no more and no less than human. Her beauty attracted him even more, and he had wanted her desperately from the beginning of her womanhood, from the day her gaze locked with his for the first time, and he was shaken to the soul.

Soul; a contradiction, to know himself a monster and still secretly believe that he possessed one. If he did, it must be strangely persistent. Whatever was deep inside him, the foundations he had built on from his childhood, had begun to crumble that day.

He could see her...

It was, perhaps, wrong to think of her when he felt like this. But he couldn't prevent it.

He could see her...

He could see her. Her image seemed to waver in the air some distance in front and above him, bearing the gentle smile that he had seen often during their lessons. Erik stared, eyes wide behind the mask. She was beckoning to him, leading him on, showing him the way. Something compelled him to follow.

She who had been lost, could be found.

* * *

Maggie awoke alone, and for a moment thought how nice it would be if everything, everything, had been a dream. She very much wanted to return to her childhood. To her early childhood, as well; something around age four would have been nice. She could go and play with the baby, Bram. She could watch sunsets from the hills outside her family's home. She could see the blood once more gone from her hands.

She could watch the storm amass, as her uncle appeared in her life for the first time and remarked smilingly what a beautiful little girl she was.

She could see Bram begin to walk, and not know that someday he would lie down forever.

She could have her mind whole and clean again, her soul and her body untouched.

She closed her eyes very tightly and denied the sun.

* * *

Christine prayed that she was alone, no name invoked in her incantation but the thoughts were sent to a very specific place. She didn't want him there. She didn't want anyone there. Raoul had not heard the news; he had left before dawn and no one was quite sure where he'd gone. Or, at least, no one saw fit to tell her. She told herself she didn't care.

She sat in a chair, armsclenched tighther middle and crying out at the pain. She thought there was some dreadful something caught in her center, trapped forever, some heavy thing that meant a little bit of death would be with her forever. The maids gave up before long, and left her to herself. She rocked back and forth, pushed against the ground with her feet, brought her hands to her face to scrub her tears away, then return to hug her middle, as though she had to hold herself together or she would come apart.

All was lost; she knew it. There was nothing left except the fundaments of the earth, and no life lingered anywhere. The early morning was as silent and still as a grave. She lay in it herself, and for a blanket she had the rain-sodden dirt. The sky outside the window was stained vibrant red as the morning grew, but she ignored it. No light could possibly reach the cold grey that she wrapped herself in.

As she denied it, the light blotted itself out. Once again she dashed the tears from her eyes, and gradually gathered enough interest to raise her head and see.

She saw dim outlines, and redsilhouetted the blackness of his form. As he turned his head slightly, eyes fixed on her face, the faintest light glimmered off the mask that he wore, and she knew once again he had come for her.

She who was lost...


	28. Abandoned Denial

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Abandoned Denial

She stared at the window, and the tears standing in her eyes were shot through with light, illuminating the sadness deep within and showing him the inward tumult as clearly as if she had spoken it. His name dropped like a pearl, like a stone, like a curse, from her lips.

"_Erik_."

She was afraid to blink in case when she opened her eyes he was gone; afraid that even now it might be merely a product of an exhausted mind. But as she watched, he began to climb through the large, open window: almost arthritically, with little of the grace that she had witnessed in him the whole time she'd known him. She realized that he must be well as tired as she. It was hard for her to realize that the catlike agility that she had always seen from him was gone, that in its place was the dust falling from his limbs.

As he died.

Slowly. As everyone else did. But surely; that black shadow crept nearer to engulf even his darkness; she could see it coming and suddenly she couldn't stand this anymore, had to reach him before it did, and her hands were on his arm, helping him through the window and into her bedroom. He flinched at her touch but accepted her help, feeling her urgency channeled down through her thin fingers clenched deep into his skin and not likely to let go.

"My dear," he said slowly, though his entrance was ruined somewhat by her actions, "I have found you once more."

She pulled him tentatively a few steps into the room and then backed away from him, taking in the sight with big eyes, shallow in the early morning light. He could see right through them to her soul, if he would look up; but he didn't seem to be able to manage it. He looked at the floor and his sticklike fingers twisted themselves into complex allusions. His slim shape cast a hulk of a shadow beneath and before him.

"So I see," she said, shrugging helplessly. "It would seem I cannot escape you, monsieur."

"Though you have tried," he said abruptly, and his fingers came up now to cover his chin and mouth, almost as though trying to hold back whatever words he wanted so desperately to say. As he turned his head away from her, light glinted off the mask, reminding her of too much altogether.

"Of course I have tried," she said dazedly. "Did you think I would simply return to you, Erik? Did you think you would awake to find me there with you again?"

He shook his head. "I did not know what to think. I— I did not think at all, perhaps."

"And why are you here, anyway," she demanded, trying to force her voice not to tremble. "Why have you come all this way and how have you come all this way? I know you now, Erik, and I know you don't have that sort of magic, to whisk yourself all those miles and over that journey by any means but those of a normal man." He flinched slightly; even now he couldn't control that reaction. She stepped closer; she thought perhaps his legs would give way and she wanted to catch him in her arms, not let him hit the floor. "You cannot fool me, monsieur," she whispered; though he had, in fact, done so many times in the past. But hadn't she grown? Wasn't she more than that frightened child she'd been, wasn't she more than that and didn't she know better?

She knew more; she knew why he was trembling when she touched him and she knew why she herself felt the way she did. Perhaps it should have warned her off, but she paid no attention to the nagging voice in her mind that whispered it would have been better to ask him to leave. The voice didn't matter, and if she kept drowning it out with her breath then nothing would matter, nothing at all. Two people haunted by each other even as they stood together in the room; love affairs with ghosts.

She had to touch him first; he might have been content just to stand there for years. She put her hand out, tentatively, to wrap her fingers around his, thin cool papery skin, the bones beneath clearly defined and plainly felt; slid her hand further up, over the shallow cup of his palm, and felt for a pulse she wasn't sure would be there.

It was; and a steady beat, no less, which grew faster as her eyes closed, letting tears slip from beneath the lids and catch on her lashes, and she drew his hand up to her lips.

Christine had lived as a married woman for years now; taken another's name, and joined another's life. Before that was confusion, and after there was a hollow discontent. She'd felt lost for so long that she couldn't quite recall what it felt like to be found. To be discovered, and to be experienced. The light in the window had been blotted out by a man with burning eyes, and she stopped dreaming then, and started living.


	29. Counterpoint

**Chapter Twenty Nine: Counterpoint**

Maggie Blessing— the name of a woman that was and might still be, somewhere underneath the confusion— wandered the foreign streets, arms clutched tight around herself, trying to fit in and hoping she didn't look anywhere near as lost as she felt, anywhere near as lost as she knew she was. It wasn't a comfortable feeling, waking up to an empty room when you had gone to sleep with company, and she hadn't wanted to wait around there in the inn. The innkeeper's wife had given her strange looks when she came down, looks that hinted they could easily lead to trouble, and so she had made her way to the door, taking a deep breath before she stepped over the threshold.

She watched the people passing her by, reactions split between curious glances and utter indifference. She wondered what they would say if she demanded their attention and told them the story of her life. What horrified expressions would she discover? What offers of help for a maiden in distress?

None, she reckoned; for the gallant urge is somewhat quelled to realize that the maiden has entered her particular distress with her eyes wide open and a will to experience the worst.

She leaned against the wall and did not cry; but her eyes caught the faces of the people through the window. More strangers, doing strange things. How odd that the world should be so diverse; she supposed they must have troubles just as she did, and yet still there was that line between them that could not be crossed. Foreigners. The strange and unusual.

No, and she couldn't tell her whole story to a passerby at any rate; not without being ridiculed. She shook her head. To run from your past and end up embroiled in a present which may well be worse than that which went before; such a woman, making such decisions, deserved to be laughed at. And she did not feel like laughing at herself, not in the least.

So she shook her head once more, opened the door, and went in.

* * *

The first few touches of skin on skin hurt her, but it was not unbearable, so she tried to force her mind past it, focus on other things. Erik was shaking so badly she thought he might collapse, but when she tried twice to pull away both times he pulled her back again. There was still an amazing amount of strength in that deceptively thin frame. 

Everything about him was deceptive; and of course he would not remove the mask, and she'd had so many dreams in which it was not there that she was grateful for this refusal. She put a hand to it and held it, though the mere shape of it felt like a burn on her palm.

And _that hurt _more; so much so that she couldn't ignore it this time, and cried out.

He stilled at once and sought her gaze out anxiously, worry in his eyes.

"My dear child, what is it?"

She choked at the sound of the word, and turned her face away; but it wasn't till she felt his fingers on her hair, smoothing and petting and soothing, that she started to sob. She spoke through the sobs but none of the words made any sense; Erik held her and shook and shuddered and wept to feel her tears falling on him.

She tried to find the words for the burning she felt, the knife that seemed to be cutting her in two; he had moved back a bit, shifted away, but it still hurt. She disentangled her hands from his, put her palms on her belly and pushed. It didn't help; the pain remained. She couldn't get her hands around it, and she pulled her legs up and bent over them, curling into as small a ball as she could manage. She couldn't bear to look up at Erik, but she felt his hands move from her hair down her back, and felt the shaking slow to a stop.

"You do not want me here."

Her nails dug deep into her knees.

"No—"

Her breath came short and fast and shallow and she squeezed her eyes shut tight.

"You do not want me here," said Erik again, and sat up; the sudden absence of his strange warmth hurt nearly as much as the pain that spread through her whole lower body, and she shook her head. Her words were fought free from behind clenched teeth.

"_For God's sake, Erik, not everything is about you."_

She felt his eyes on her; the pain began to ebb and her skin to cool. She took her breaths deeper and began to straighten her body out once more. He put his hand to her cheek and smoothed away tears with his thumb.

"No, my dear," he said softly, "it has always been about you."

She still could not look him in the eye, but under his touch her muscles began to unclench, to relax. He had come closer once more to her, and she leaned into him, pulling the blanket up over herself as she grew cold, finding a haven between it and his chest. She searched his heartbeat out with her fingers, and then her lips, which twitched and settled into a strange smile at the feel of his constant shuddering.

"You will always be here, Erik," she stated calmly.

His voice a broken whisper against her hair.

"Yes."

And there they lay for quite some time, his fingers smoothing pain away, his eyes simply not seeing the changes in this woman who had been his Christine. The noise that began took a few moments to force its way into their consciousness; she sat up quickly, wrapping the blanket tighter around her, and shifted her eyes everywhere but at him. Erik found his breath at last.

"My dear..."

"It_ is_ Raoul," she said, rapidly, "and now you must go. You know him; he has not changed. Someone would die if he found you here; you, in revenge, or he, in heartbreak." She still couldn't stand to look at him, but shook her head and closed her eyes, dropping her head forward as her hair hid her face from him, a curtain he longed to lift aside. "I am sure he knows, or will know, or has known. You left marks on me, Erik. He sees them there, though he cannot read the language they are in."

Erik stood, and moved towards the window; he thought perhaps that would be the way it was left, but she caught his hand just at the last, before he went over the sill, and her eyes were on him again, and beseeching.

"You must go now, but you will return," she said. His fingers caught the sunlit tendrils of hair and brushed them back behind her ear; she avoided the sight of his face and smiled merely at the sight of his body, clothes rumpled and shirt half-buttoned, something more and something less than he had ever been before, when he had only taught her music of the voice.

"I will return," he said, swiftly pressed his lips aganst her brow, and was gone.

* * *

It had been only a few hours, yet it seemed much longer. She was again seated in the room at the inn, patiently and rhythmically pricking her finger as she tried to create needlework that she need not be ashamed of. She'd never had the talent. There was blood all over the white cloth, yet she kept on.

It didn't surprise her in the least when the door was opened; he made a quiet entrance, as always, sidling over the threshold, giving her a short bow in greeting. She managed a half-smile and gestured to the chair with the cloth.

"You are bleeding."

"Accurate as always," she said, forcing her tone into something lighter than she felt. "I am not good at this."

"Then why do it?"

She looked fully at him for the first time, and took some time to consider her answer. "Perseverance, I suppose. A vital part of my personality. How did you find the streets of our fair city, monsieur?"

"Passable," he said shortly, and leaned back in his chair.

"I hope you took the opportunity to enjoy a carriage ride through some of the more historic areas. It was quite enjoyable, I may tell you, for I siezed said opportunity with both hands, myself."

"I did not," he said. "I walked."

"And did you see much of interest?" she inquired, stabbing the needle through the cloth for emphasis.

"I confess I saw little of the town."

At this she sat forward, depositing the needlework on the ground and clasping her aching hands together in her lap. "Did you find her, Erik?"

He would not mimic her posture or her pretension towards intimate conversation; rather, if anything, he grew more detached in manner. But inside he was considering which answer to give; the truthful one, or the answer which would render things far less... _complicated_ for the time being. He found that he was beginning to value simplicity.

"I did not," he said at last. She sat back again, and folded her arms.

"I am sorry you left so early. I had hoped to accompany you in your search, to help you." This was such a blatant lie that Erik nearly laughed; the corners of his mouth quirked up, certainly, but this only made her angrier. "I hope you have considered what you will do when you find her. I hope that you have your life figured out; and mine as well, Erik, lest you forget."

He shook his head slightly. "I wonder, Margaret, I truly do, if my Christine would have turned out like you, had she been subjected to the same trials and tribulations."

"I do not doubt that Madame de Chagny has had troubles in her past," said Maggie irritably, "as indeed you yourself played a negligible part in her former life."

He sat forward at this. "I played no minor role, madame! I was as important to her as she herself was to me!"

"And yet," countered Maggie, "it is not she who sits here now, monsieur."

Their eyes met and a ferocious battle was joined there, in absolute silence, both of them leaning forward in their chairs, trying to stare the other down. Maggie relinquished first, her eyes flicking briefly to her fingers.

"I'm bleeding," she said shortly, and stood decisively, moving to the washbasin beside the bed. Erik watched her warily, and tried to rearrange his thoughts into the comfortable fog he'd been in upon entering the room. Curse this woman for clearing it away, and revealing that complexity which he was trying so hard to ignore!

"Pray do wake me up on the morrow, before you leave," said Maggie at length, watching as blood turned the basin red. Erik's eyes traveled from her boots up to her hair, and he simultaneously sighed and glared. "I should like to say goodbye."

Time moved alternately in leaps and bounds; and, as is usually the case, no one was entirely happy.


	30. And Endless

**Chapter Thirty: And Endless**

But he was gone again when she awoke the next morning, and for some time she concentrated on reconciling herself to the fact that it was something he felt obliged to do on his own; a search he must perform for himself. She curled up on the bed and thought bitterly that it was supremely unlikely she might have put herself out to be a help, anyway; when it came down to it, she did not think she would actually be able to contribute to the finding of her husband's true love.

She could not help but wonder where their lives would go, after Christine de Chagny was found; what possible permutation this present wedded bliss would undergo with the addition of the ex-diva, and her husband, come to think of it. Maggie curled her fingers around her ankles and forced her nails into her skin; it hurt less than thinking of Erik finding Christine, a joyful reunion, smiles on faces she had never seen.

How ridiculous that she loved him. She had condemned herself to a life of pain and not only that, a life of idiocy, which would be apparent to everyone. Could she stand to leave Erik when Christine was found? Or would she be left herself, would she awake to find all his possessions gone and his personage removed to some far-away locale? Or would he, perhaps, simply take Christine back to his hole under the Opera house?

Her lip curled as she thought of Christine adapting to life in the labyrinth, dealing with rats and dirt and probably very little cupboard space to boot. Not a scenario that Maggie herself would have relished, but it afforded her some dark amusement to think of her rival in that situation. And would Erik ever realize that it might have been better with someone else in Christine's place?

Not likely.

Her subconscious always had a way of bringing reality to the situation; as though this were a normal situation! As though every girl had a stint of being married to the Phantom of the Opera!

She didn't think of her rights as a wife, because she knew somehow that as little attention would be paid to that as would be paid to— well, Raoul de Chagny for instance. Where did he fit into this farce? He had been Erik's rival as Christine was now Maggie's; how would he react, should he come to find that he had been defeated after all, years later? It was still only a possibility, she reminded herself; it was still a question, and not a certainty.

She told herself that several times as she thought herself in circles, and each time she believed it less.

* * *

"It is all pain again," said Christine helplessly, her arms around herself, trying to keep warmth where it belonged. "I cannot explain it to you, but it is all pain."

Erik was silent. He had come through the window once more, having first been warned that he must only stay a short while as Raoul was due back from his business in town. He watched his love as she rocked back and forth on the made-up bed, clad in a dressing gown, her hair still down on her shoulders. She was not ready for the day; she didn't look likely to ever be ready for the day. He hunched his shoulders and moved his gaze over her slowly, point to point, feature to feature, arms to shoulders to throat to chin to mouth to eyes, and held it there. Her eyes were dark and silvered with shadows which never seemed to dissipate; he could see the pain there more clearly than he could hear it in her voice.

"You will not tell me what happened," he said.

"I would beg you not to ask," she said, and her lashes dropped swiftly down. She swallowed hard, the movement evident in the slimness of her throat. It felt like a failing on her own part, both the loss of her child and her inability to share the pain. She should have felt strong for bearing it on her own; she felt the weaker for the burden. She wanted Erik to lay by her and take the weight off her frail body, but it hurt, it hurt, it hurt. Raoul was gone; she did not know where, truly, and though there was of course the possibility that he might return at any time, it was much more likely that he would not be back for quite a while. She wanted to tell Erik to stay; but the pain was dictating her actions, the pain was there riding her shoulder and whispering in her ear, and she could only say that he must sit by her for a while, and take her mind off her troubles if he could.

He was silent and sullen, and seemed not at all inclined to oblige.

"Tell me what you have been through, to get here," she said; she arched her fingers on her forehead and pressed the tips of them into her temples.

"It is a muddle, a confusion, a mess," he answered. "I was searching for light, you see, in dark places. Candles are no use unless they are lit, and I fear the fire has gone out long ago."

"I don't understand," she said, although she did.

He looked straight at her and narrowed his eyes. She thought of the dreams she'd had, always that face without the mask, and shuddered.

"I'm pulled two ways," she said, helplessly. "I can't make you comprehend it all, Erik, when I can't bring myself to touch you and I can't look away."

The wrong thing to say, of course, and she knew it as she said it, but it was too late now; he pushed himself up and stood over her, fingers tucking her hair away out of her face so he could see her expression clearly.

"Curse you for truth," he said, hollowly, and kissed her, for the first time without love. It was hard and cold and strangely removed; it made her cry, and she cried alone, for he left immediately.

* * *

He walked the streets of this strange town for hours upon end, raging silently and hiding himself from those walking by; it was raining, dark and dismal out, few denizens of the city dared venture onto the streets and he was able to keep himself alone for the majority of the time. He thought in lines sharply crooked, right angles and spirals and doubling back, lit underneath by anger and lust, his feet driven on by his mind's unconscious search for somewhere dark to curl up and hide, like an animal searching out its burrow. He was lost, naturally, after the first half an hour, and he walked and walked on until it began to grow dark.

It did not help; nothing seemed likely to help. There was anger there, and a chasm of sorrow as well; the accumulation of a lifetime of little, topped off by his love's perceived rejection, all because she couldn't bring herself to explain. He found his way back to the inn, and refused to look Maggie in the face.

She was waiting; it was late, now, and she was dressed for bed and waiting still.

"You found her," she said.

He wouldn't speak; he sat down on the edge of the bed and began to twist the cloth over his knees in his fingers; it looked like he was trying to tie knots in the limber digits. She watched him with compassion, sat beside him on the floor and took his hands in hers. The coolness of her skin surprised him, this uncommon, unexpected touch, but he still couldn't bear to look in her eyes.

"I suppose it is unwise of me to ask," she said, "and I won't force you to think ahead, Erik, not tonight. Just know that it is coming, and when you decide how to leave me, I beg you to let me know."

The speech startled her as much as it did him; it certainly wasn't what she'd rehearsed, and the sentiment was nothing like what she'd intended to express. She hadn't even been conscious of thinking those words, though she supposed they must have been formulating themselves somewhere, hidden in the depths of her mind. She managed a weak smile at Erik.

"You know all that I am," she said. "You could hardly expect me, at this late date, to be less than truthful."

"I don't know all," he said.

"You know what there is; anything else is as yet undiscovered even by myself. Whereas I know so little about you, monsieur— there is still so much to be determined."

"There is nothing left," he said, and finally looked at her. She smiled sweet and sad.

"I know the feeling; eaten up and left for empty."

"Convulsions of deceit as your mind turns on itself," he said, angrily.

"That's supposing that your mind works that way—"

"How else would you expect the mind of a monster to operate? I betray everyone, Margaret, not excluding myself."

She tipped her head to one side, and stared at him.

"I can see demons looking out from your eyes," she said.

He nodded, almost imperceptibly, acknowledging their presence. "Do they frighten you?"

"No," she replied. "They are familiar; they mirror my own."

"The more pity for you," he said, and the anger was there again, stronger than ever, enhanced by the sudden upsurge of that enormous sadness. He buckled in on himself, hunched and small.

"Tell me what happened, please, Erik."

"I can't."

"You found her, I can see. You found her— a home, has she, and a husband, and children, and a life without you?"

A flare of anger, directed this time at her, but quickly snuffed out by the ever-growing sorrow.

"What else, Erik? What else did she do?" He closed his eyes tightly and shook his head.

"She has made her choice," he said. "She has made it again."

"Again?"

"So many times she has left with him," he muttered. "So many times he was won out in our struggle. There is no chance, and there never was."

It made her heart ache to see him like this— how utterly undone he was, drunk on his own grief. Not for the first time, it crossed her mind that marrying her was an ungainly form of revenge, and resulted in more hurt to Erik than it did to Christine.

"If you believe that," she said, "if you ever believed that, then why were we following them?"

He hesitated clearly, and Maggie got to her knees, moved closer to him, bent slightly over his bowed, dark head.

"What else did she do, Erik— what made you half-believe— certainly want to believe— she wanted you to come after her?"

His lips moved, but she could barely hear him— his voice halfway between a sob and a moan.

"She kissed me," he said. "Oh, she kissed me and she held me close. No one ever kissed me before, or touched me as she did— she was frightened still, but conquered fear—"

It was too much for Maggie, all at once. She felt as though she'd been waiting for ten lifetimes and if she did not do something now she would lose forever the will to, and be left only with the stranglehold that need had on her. She caught hold of his chin in her hand and pulled his head up to look in his eyes.

"_I _am not afraid, and never was," she said firmly. She inclined her head and brushed her mouth against his, so carefully, as though he might break— as though he were not already broken— seeking a response, any response—

Although, when it came, she was completely unprepared for it.

Something deep in Erik dictated actions, something deeper than pain and a fellow to anger— his fingers trailed up the backs of her thighs, warm through the thin material of her nightgown— he pulled her closer, his mouth increasingly avid, their kiss intense, and then pulled her down, so she sat, her knees on either side of him, astride his lap. She clutched her arms tight about his neck, delirious in the feeling as his intoxication began to be rooted in another source entirely.

He lay back on the bed, taking her with him, and she settled her body over his; fingers twisting in his hair, the kiss still relatively chaste, the embrace naive and inexperienced, both conscious of a sudden urge for something infinitely more. Her hands caressed down his face, her fingers finding the smooth surface of the mask. The coolness of it startled her and she pulled back. He followed her, half-sitting, reaching for her. Their mouths free—

"Erik—"

"_Christine_—"

Later, when she thought about it, she realized how sad, how unutterably pathetic it was, that she didn't let that stop her. If anything she threw herself into it more heartily, perhaps seeking to impress on him who she was— she wanted to draw an impassioned outcry from him, and it was _her_ name she wanted to hear on his lips. But something clicked in Erik's brain, and he rolled over onto his side, placed his hands on her shoulders, and shoved her away. He scrambled up from the bed, looked down at himself, and cursed her aloud.

Maggie lay on her back, deeply shaken— she hardly noticed when he left the room, as drugged as she felt. She wondered if her heart was still beating— she couldn't feel it. Then she realized it was beating so fast the beats ran together, becoming inseparable.

She lay alone and tried to let her mind drift, anything to slow her heartbeat before it burst. But all she could think of was Erik— the sweet and foreign taste of him, unlike anything, anything on earth—

_Angel_.

The word came unbidden to her mind, and she pulled it close as she thought about the feel of him, warm against her, though she could still sense the cavernous cold that lay at his heart. She was so tremendously sad now, her frustration dying to a nagging sensation of being unfulfilled, though she knew she ought to be grateful for what she'd gotten; felt greedy for wanting more.

She fell asleep and dreamed of winter.

* * *

**A/N: So there.**


	31. A Fall

**Chapter Thirty One: A Fall**

She had a dream.

There was running and falling and fighting, there were horrific, monstrous shadows cast up against red velvet curtains; the edges began to curl and writhe as flame licked at them, burning the red from them, melting it to run in puddles, like wax, like blood. The curtains turned black and crumbled from their hangings; they draped themselves over a figure there in the middle of the stage, and the figure danced in irritation and more immediate pain as it, too, set on fire. It was a ghost, a coal-black ghost, far more like a spectre than Erik ever had been; but nonetheless rather risible, a ridiculous addition to her nighttime mind that would make her wonder, if she remembered it upon waking, if she remembered it at all.

Her husband was not dead; not yet. But he was being followed, by a woman she recognized only a little, having seen her in some shop or other, some time in the past. The woman's eyes were hot as coals, her lips were red and rimmed in black. She glowered at Christine and hefted the knife in her hand, following Raoul back out of the box they sat in, through the curtain that blocked them off from the rest of the theatre, to disappear into the corridor outside. The box they were in; in a sudden, ruthless panic which clawed at her throat and jerked her into action, Christine leapt to her feet and made sure: it was not Box Five. She breathed a sigh of relief. They had not trespassed on his territory.Erik would have no cause to be angry.

Everything would be fine.

The running, the falling and fighting, the shadows, she recognized now as something from an opera; from the looks of thing, certainly the work of a German. There were bodies strewn across the stage. She could not see clearly to tell if they still breathed or not; she rather thought that their last exit had, indeed, been their last exit, their final bow a gracious farewell to this realm. The ridiculous character in the sheet, upstage and upstaging everyone, proved to be LaCarlotta; freed from her trappings, she launched forth into a couplet which Christine had never heard before, and which took her a moment to comprehend.

"_He who lives, breathes, and dies for evermore,_

_"Must forget the things he's fighting for."_

There was a thump and an abbreviated scream from behind Christine, but she was paying too much attention to the stage to take any notice.

Carlotta sang of some man's demise, rhyming it quite inappropriately with "sparkling eyes," and went on at length about worms and their ways. Christine relaxed for a moment, before she heard,

_"What soul she has not, and hopes to gain,_

_"She steals from he who dies of pain."_

Christine sat up straight, and narrowed her eyes at the stage. Carlotta, indeed, turned and gestured towards her, sitting in her box, elbows on the ledge and eyes attentive and suspicious. The audience, she now realized, was entirely made up of corpses, burned, garrotted, strangled, stabbed, and guillotined, heads tucked under their arms and eyes now turned, improbably, towards her.

_"What manner of creature, worm or host,_

_"Sits here before us, Bride of Ghost!_

_"As she revels in fingertips"_

The audience inhaled; it was entirely unnecessary.

_"She steals his lifebreath from his lips!"_ screeched Carlotta, and the assembly murmured Christine's name, and various imprecations. Murderer, would they call her, when she alone had done no murder? Let them look to the rest of the world for their scapegoats, but let them see how badly, how ill she herself, Christine, had been used!

She stood, and spread her arms, to tell them so.

And Raoul pushed her from the edge.

She was falling, as she had fallen before, let suddenly into a trapdoor, the existence of which she had not suspected. Ah yes, he loved those trapdoors, did Erik; he loved those horrible surprises. To feel the earth drop out from under you, to be so exclusively at the mercy of gravity, with no expectation of what she would meet except death or broken bones, on the hard cold surface of the ground.

Instead it was the hard, cold surface of his arms.

He caught her as though she weighed nothing, and dropped her contemptuously to the floor at his feet.

"Will you have them martyr you for my sins?" he asked, eyes narrowed. Again, he wore no mask, and after the first horrific glance she kept her eyes on the tips of his shoes, in front of her. "At the very least, have the courtesy to inform them of your own misjudgements, your own bad decisions, that justice may in some small way be served. I won't have anyone dying for my sins; let us all atone for our own. It is so much simpler that way."

"My sins?" she said, her voice low and her eyes still fixed on his shoes. "What are my sins when compared with those of everyone else, Erik? Tell me, and I won't mind being avenged as I need to be. But, let me know."

He came to his knees before her, and forced her to look up at him. She closed her eyes; but his visage burned through the lids, and she could not shut him out. They remained like that for too long.

"You must stop dreaming," he murmured at last. "You will drive yourself insane."

"I wish I could," she said, "I wish I could stop."

"Its very telling," he said, "that you should again land in my arms, that you should again seek my protection from the horrible cruel cold world outside. Seek the all-enfolding warmth here, below."

She had half a mind to object; but his words made her rethink her own, and she said at last, "Yes."

"You are more dangerous than you know," he told her, and his eyes were haunted. "You cannot be forgotten; you cannot be forgiven. There is no atonement, for you, not on this earth or below it. There is no right justice, or punishment for the sins of being wrong, and caught up in the wills of everyone else."

"No," she said, and opened her eyes. It was dark in her room, and she was alone once more; she'd slept through the day, waking only briefly when Raoul had poked his head in. He'd said he didn't like to bother her and would go away directly. To bother someone else, she imagined, and twisted her mouth in a cynical grimace.

It was a dream she'd had, of course it was, but it was true and real just the same. She wanted Erik there; his purpose in her life had as yet to be clearly defined, but she was not willing to give him up. For now, it was more a question of how long she could keep him, while she waited for someone stronger than she to make up their mind.

She thought it was important to hold onto what you knew.


	32. The Desert of Truth

**A/N: In this chapter, it is apparently clear that my father is a lawyer. Sorry 'bout the wordiness.**

**Chapter 32: The Desert of Truth**

Something out of the ordinary woke her up. To be perfectly truthful, she realized muzzily, pawing her hair out of her eyes and blinking, in the situation she currently found herself in, it was difficult to find something that wasn't out of the ordinary. More likely to be found strange were the things that she used to find perfectly normal; washing one's face, for example, or eating soup, or walking down the street.

What had woken her up was the sound of the door; he had clearly gone to some pains to make his exit absolutely soundless, and she had no doubt that he was proficient at noiselessness in any situation; however, there had been a slight click when the door shut to. It hadn't woken her up before. This morning, she supposed, she must be particularly attuned to disturbances, and she set her mind to wondering why as she tossed aside the coverlet and began to dress.

She had asked him if she could go with him, hadn't she? She hadn't really expected him to wake her, to take her with him, but she definitely recalled making the request. But he had been gone, and then he had gotten back to the room at the inn so late last night, and with that indefineable, unutterable weariness in her eyes that had signaled something she couldn't quite put her finger on now. She noticed a bruise or two on her skin, which looked like the marks of fingers, and she, on the whole, felt rather strange. Yes, it must have been...

No.

She was out the door, yanking on her coat haphazardly and crookedly, when full remembrance penetrated her sleep-fuzzed mind, with all the force of a hammer driving in a nail, and she stopped in her tracks and stared fixedly at the hallway floor in front of her. Had she really... and had they really nearly... but why did he...

Never before as at that moment had the implications of being the wife of the Phantom of the Opera sunk so clearly home. Having been married to this man (for how long, now, was it? it seemed ages) and yet to be so shocked, surprised, taken aback, and utterly thrilled at what would seem to be perfectly natural for any other couple. Not having been married previously, she of course could be quite wrong on this point, she thought; the society she had grown up around had been even more repressed than normal for her time, although certain experiences on her part gave her the wisdom to ignore customs of that sort. Even as a little girl, she'd always thought that when she married someone she loved, she would kiss them every chance she got. As a little girl, of course, she hadn't exactly imagined that the someone she loved and married would be Erik.

She shook her head to try and clear it some, then pushed on down the hall, headed for the stairs. What few daydreams she'd had of some great love to come in her future had been ruthlessly quashed at an early age. She had chosen to forget the reason for their absence throughout her teens. This was no time to let it all catch up with her again.

Any of it. It all must stay away, she told herself firmly. The present was so much more pressing and important than the past; she had things to focus all her attention on, here and now, and she couldn't, she wouldn't, let him get away. Because who knew where he would go? And who knew if he would come back?

At what point during the night had he returned, anyway? She frowned as she hurried down the stairs. She couldn't recall him coming back; there was just his voice floating behind him, cursing her, the door slamming shut, and she had fallen soon afterwards into a deep sleep. She couldn't even recall her dreams, if indeed she had dreamt that night. She shivered as she left the building, wrapped her arms about herself. Perhaps, she thought, it was better that she could not remember dreaming. It was unlikely to have been a comforting or enjoyable experience, after the events of the past few weeks, and especially this past evening.

Perhaps there _was_ some dim indication of awareness in her mind; a time when she might have heard the door open, because as accustomed to moving nearly-silently as Erik was, there was that _nearly_. And so she must have sleepily registered that for a time she was not the only one in the room; perhaps she even wondered, half-conscious, where he'd spent the intervening time, what brooding he'd done, if he'd smashed anything or stolen anyone's pet or Christine for that matter: her nighttime mind was a great deal less rational than her daytime one. And what had he done upon reentering the room? Crossed over to the bed, leaned down, lips parted so his breath reached her face, causing her to stir and mutter, his eyes fixed on hers as beneath the lids Maggie's pupils wildly searched for _light_.

He had watched her sleep for a little while; and then gone out. She was sure of it, even as she was positive that she could find him now. It had not been too altogether long since he left the inn, and she was becoming accustomed to the stop-start way he had of moving, gliding from shadow to shadow, hiding from the normalcy of the world. It was a pattern that echoed down all the ravines of the rest of his life, as she knew only too well. The streets were almost deserted at this time of the day, bar a few shopmen going over the final preparation for the showing of their wares; Maggie glanced up at the sky, pure as night, a black cloak over the city, and judged it going on four o'clock in the morning. Erik would have to move faster if he wanted to get anywhere before the city was teeming with life, pedestrians and bargain-hunters and fine carriages and far, far too many pairs of eyes.

There. Just up ahead; a shadow that moved of its own volition. She leapt forward, startled herself by starting to run, and frightened herself by calling his name. Her voice was hoarse. She felt in a panic. She dreaded and didn't know what she'd do should she actually catch him up.

He waited for her.

She could see him lean back against the brick wall of the building behind him, one gloved hand reaching out to touch the rough surface, to reassure himself that something was real, something was solid. He was not standing straight. He looked exhausted, his shoulders slumped. She had no idea what to do, or what she was going to do, but it appeared that she was going to find out.

She stood before him, and when she spoke, her voice was low and emphatic.

"_Its not wrong_."

Clearly this was not what he'd been expecting, and, given that she hadn't known what tactic she was going to implement, it wasn't exactly what she was expecting, either. They looked at each other; he was unwilling to speak; she had no choice but to go on.

"I know what you think. And its a bit like what I was thinking, all this time we've been traveling together, searching for the woman you say you love. I couldn't bear to touch you, because I didn't know what you'd do; but I can't not be with you, Erik. Till you tell me to go, and till you mean it, I've got to stay. Its not wrong and it isn't a, it isn't a sin, Erik, you're not playing false to Christine; you're not playing false to _yourself_, I look at you and I see it all, the truth behind it; _obsession isn't love_, Erik."

He took half a step forward; beneath the mask, his mouth opened slightly, then closed again. His mind was racing, to try and tell her the way things were, the incontrovertible truth, the self-evident realities, the unarguable and unassailable_ real_.

"Its all I know," he said at last.

And Maggie sobbed.

She put her hands over her face and wept into them, hard and ungainly, graceless and rough. Her shoulders convulsed as her breath left her in spasms of horror at the life of the man who stood before her; horror at the realization of what his life was; and a deep aching yawning gulf of sadness at the bleakness of his voice, a desert of truth that she recognized. She couldn't manage words out of her mouth, gaping open, tears running freely into it; she covered it and tried to hide, tried to get herself back together. Felt aches and pains, bruises and scars, hidden wounds.

"Please," she said; he heard.

He bent closer to her, briefly. His eyes were confused, and strange, and soft.

"Please," she said, "let me show you."


	33. Measure of a Mind

**A/N: This one's for Ad... well, not really, but dedicated to Adison anyway. And all of the children that she bears Bram, may they live long and happily.**

**Chapter Thirty Three: Measure of a Mind**

"Yes," said Erik.

"No," said Christine.

He was poised to leave at the slightest notice. She could tell by the way he stood, arms not folded as they so often were in a tutor's disapproval of a recalcitrant student, but down by his sides, elbows bent slightly, fingers tensed, his entire body attuned solely to the exits available to him: the door if he dodged past where she stood, clutching a shawl around herself and staring at him in disbelief, or the window behind him and slightly to his left, which he had climbed in at not ten minutes before. He was not looking at her; he had spared her hardly a glance since he got there, and she was too befuddled, too much in denial, to comprehend why. All she could do, like a child, was repeat one word, as though it were the only one she knew, the only one she had ever learned.

"No," she said, "no."

Erik rubbed his fingers lightly over the fabric of his trousers, folding the cloth in three lines and plucking at it with his fingertips.

"Christine, it does not matter what you say."

The words came out far harsher than he had intended, but perhaps harshness was what was needed? Just as he could not look at her for fear the sight of her face, tears starting under hollow eyes, mouth pleading blankly for a relent, would cause him to change his mind, he could not let the softness in his heart permeate his voice. For a time he felt he'd beaten down his demons; but underneath this facade of sanity was the knowledge that one of them was standing in front of him, telling him in a cascade of negatives that he was not allowed to leave, and under no circumstances allowed to try and be something more than what he was.

He swallowed, and fixed his eyes on the ornate doorknob behind the weeping woman, then began to speak in a slow and measured tone, to ensure his words were getting through to her, striking home like daggers, cutting her to pieces, as she slowly came apart before his eyes.

"I can see everything, how it was and how it is. You would wish me to remain ever as I have been, dancing attendance and there when you call, and when you have done with me, banished back to my lair beneath the opera house, or some other dungeon, some other trap I have made myself fit for. It may have been alright, Christine— it may have been acceptable! — but I have at long last been given another choice." The next sentence was going to take a great deal of composure, and he had to take a deep breath before he could get it out. "She wants me with her; a normal man, with a normal house above the ground, and a normal wife."

He paused there, forced himself not to hold his breath, and waited.

"No," said Christine, and he saw that hardly any of his words had been getting through to her at all, for she was still transfixed by what he had said upon entering the room via the window. He had told her he was leaving.

She needed something more than him standing there telling her things she did not want to hear, so he raised his eyes at last to meet hers, and gave her all the force of the truth.

"I am married, Christine, and I go to the place my wife calls a home in order to start a life unlike anything I've ever known. I will change myself; I will adapt. I will be better, as she enables me to be better, and does not require me to stay the monster under her bed, the angel trapped beneath the earth. She does not ask that of me."

Her eyelashes dropped over the wet shallows of her eyes in a slow blink of the beginnings of comprehension; his gaze had gotten through to her. He put his hands behind his back; it was true that the sight of her called to him to change his mind, and he told himself over and over that he would not give in. It was a delicate balance between madness and clarity at the moment; he walked the line with deliberate steps, and held himself aloof from her suddenly reaching fingers.

"But you would not," she said, blundering her words and her footsteps as she tried to go to him, "you would not leave me, Erik, after having found me after so long? You see what I am, here, you see how my life is. You've brought a bit of change with you, my angel, darkness to blot out the blood, you've brought shades to the grey. You wouldn't take that away from me?"

He could not reply to that, no matter how hard he tried to make his lips and tongue form the word. _I would, Christine, my Christine— because you are not really mine, I cannot have all of you, and I must try to have all of someone— at least, have all of me. _It made no sense even in his own head, and he blinked back frustrated tears of his own.

She kept stepping towards him, hands outstretched and grasping, and he couldn't back away, she nearly had him when it occurred to her to ask, "Who is she?"

He took a deep breath, and the tears dried immediately. Despite the fact that Maggie was not there, the very reminder of her was enough to bring him back.

"In the midst of madness, I have seen reason." He sighed heavily. "Her name is Margaret Blessing; she does all things for my sake and appears determined to save me."

Christine laughed, loudly, a bit frenetically.

"What need have you of being saved, Erik? Why should an angel need a savior?"

"And that as well," said Erik, "yes, she knows what I am and she sees no need to persist in denying it. She is under no delusions about her husband, never has been— and remains with me in spite of it. You do not understand all I am, Christine. You think you have seen into my mind but you can't comprehend half of what you see in my eyes. You're afraid to look beneath—"

"And she," said Christine, her voice low and rough, lit with a cold fury as she advanced towards him, now on sure feet, stalking him like a predator. "And she has seen beneath— she sees all of you and knows you and is not afraid, Erik? Will you tell me that she embraces the monstrous countenance you have shown to me?"

He went very still, and very quiet.

"It is a measure of a man," he said, "when the faults of his face have been counted as more offense than the crimes of his hands. It is a telling measure of a woman also. Goodbye, Christine."

He went for the window; he did not have to pass her by, only turn his back on her trembling body, her slowly drying tears.

She stood in the same attitude for some moments, listening for any noise that would bring her back to the reality she found herself forced to inhabit. But the servants on the floors below knew better than to disturb their mistress, Raoul was away from home, and even the children were quiet for a change. Christine rubbed at her wrist with the tense fingers of her other hand, chafing away until it was raw. The pain pulled at her slightly more than the endless pit of emptiness in her belly, the endless dark and nothingness in her mind.

She said aloud, to the empty room, "No."

No.

She made what was left of her mind up in that moment, and denied the truth, denounced it for an imposter. Erik was hers'; he had promised her that, long ago, and she was full of fire, determined to have him make good on it, calling forth his guarantee. She ignored the pull of reason, covered it over with the certainty of herself.

"_We are all monsters, and we are all humans, and we are all damned."_


	34. Home

**Chapter Thirty Three: Home**

Home, inexplicably, looked the same as always. Maggie had rather expected it to have been wrecked, or possibly burnt down entirely— with Bram left to his own devices, there was really no telling. But it looked the same— prosaic, normal, a bit dusty— with the important addition of Erik's presence in it, black-cloaked, stoic, and silent. She was grateful she had not much in the way of knick-knacks, for she could all too clearly picture Erik poking gloomily at them and trying not to look as uncomfortable as he felt. Indeed, he was already carrying out the latter half of that scenario, standing motionless in the corner and avoiding the shaft of light the doorway let in.

"Its late," she said, quietly, and Erik acknowledged that it was. "I'll get you— oh—" She was distracted by a sound from deeper within the flat. "I'll be right back, Erik— Erik—" She waited patiently till she had his attention, though it was hard to tell where his eyes were in the darkness, and then smiled at him. "Erik, if you don't sit down, I will yell. You must be at least as exhausted as I am."

He stood motionless for a moment longer and then conceded, moving stiffly further into the room and sitting on a chair that looked relatively harmless. "I don't believe you ever truly are exhausted, Margaret," he told her, and she chose to ignore the tone of his voice, as there was a deeper admission underneath it that she thought far more worthy of her attention. She walked from the room, undoing the ties of her cloak, and tested whether or not she truly believed that Erik noticed everything she did, knew everything she was.

She hadn't reached a definite conclusion when she got to Bram's door, which was open. She had thought lovingly of pausing in the doorframe to observe him, sleeping peacefully, and would have done so had he not been awake, piercing green eyes trained firmly on the opening.

"Knew you were back," he mumbled into her hair, tucking his chin so deeply into the crook of her shoulder that it pained her. "Felicity read me your telegram, you see—"

"Oh did she," said Maggie, laughing. She clutched him tighter.

"She did," he confirmed. He let go of her suddenly and drew back against the pillow to scrutinize her face carefully, looking worried and not attempting to hide it. "Are you alright, then, Maggie? I've wondered how it— how everything was going. Your messages were hardly informative."

"Expensive to fit too much detail in a telegram," she told him, still smiling. "Just so long as you knew I was alive—"

"You expect me not to worry as long as I know you're alive? Maggie, darling, you've got to know I worry as much for your sanity as I do for your continued existence. I could hardly be expected not to fret over your mental state when you're not right here for me to watch over." He petted her hair, smoothing it over with his palm, and gave her a gentle smile that was so unlike his normal sunshiney grin that she sobered as well.

"I understand you were worried about me," she said, "and I understand why. All I can tell you—"

"He's here?"

She paused.

"Yes."

"Where?"

"In the front room. Fiddling with things and being out of place."

Bram gave a short, quiet snort of laughter. "I should imagine so. What does he think of your perseverance, Maggie?"

"Whatever do you mean?" she asked with pretended, self-conscious dignity, drawing away from him to stand up once more, her hands automatically going to her hips.

"He doesn't know, as I know, the sort of woman you are— that once you determine to do a thing, it is done," Bram clarified, returning to seriousness. He arched an eyebrow and ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. "He's not had my experience. Growing up with you, Mags—"

"If you're expecting him to be a henpecked husband—"

"That's hardly my expectation," he cut her short. "What I do expect is to sit back and watch as he figures out that you mean to do this thing properly. He may claim to have wanted a normal wife and a normal way of living, but he wanted it with the diva, the singer. Not with you. He's switched his dreams without even realizing it, because he never truly expected you to go through with it; or stay with him at all."

Maggie closed her mouth abruptly over the words that leapt to her tongue— they were hurtful, and then pained, angry, followed by tears— but Bram had a gift for seeing reality even as he had a gift for spinning fantasy with his words, and she could not but acknowledge that in all possibility he was right. Surely Erik never expected her to stay with him, in the end; surely he deemed himself unworthy, or wanted—

"I've offered him the basis of his dream," she said, finally, quietly, looking exhausted. "Its up to him to build upon that foundation."

Bram eyed her for a moment more, and then the familiar grin broke over his countenance like a sunrise. "No better cornerstone for a life well-lived than to start it with you," he declared. "I hope he realizes that— and if he doesn't, I'll make him know it."

Maggie smiled at him, and bent swiftly to hug him once more. "I missed you," she murmured into his bed-ruffled hair. "So much."

"And you found her," prompted Bram, patting her shoulder till she drew away, eyes downcast.

"Yes," she murmured, "we found her— but he came home with me."

"That, above all things, is true," Bram said, "true and telling. I suppose he dreams of her— I would, were I in his situation— he followed his dream, Maggie. Watch out should his dream follow him."

"That's ridiculous," she dismissed it, shortly. "Its nothing more to do with us, Bram. We'll put it out of our minds. We'll grow past it." She kissed him on the cheek, swiftly, and whispered in his ear, "He is with me. I've won."

She was gone out of the room, on her way to confront, console, make comfortable her extremely uncomfortable husband. Bram whispered his last observation to the empty walls.

"A battle is never truly won till the warriors meet face to face—"

There was a piano in the front room, ancient, dusty, and long unused. Presently, someone began to play.


	35. The Unique Dead

**A/N: Sorry its taken so bleedin' long! Life went crazy and put the smackdown on me. And to tell you the truth, this chapter exists because of PJ. So, y'know, blame her. (And can someone find my notes for me?)**

**Chapter Thirty-Five: The Unique Dead**

When she thought back over it, the evening had gone rather well; she perched on the dusty armchair in Bram's room and listened to Erik play, hands clutched on the side of the cushion on either side of her knees, leaning forward and examining the pattern in the worn and threadbare carpet beside Bram's bed. Bram himself had laid back against his pillow, arms folded over his chest, and if weren't for the careful pattern of his breathing, she might have thought he was sleeping through it; except of course she knew there was no way anyone could sleep through Erik's playing.

The music sang along her nerves, jangled the ends of them into bright awareness, gave her a hollow, excited, sick feel in the pit of her stomach, a weakness in her knees and elbows, and she clutched tighter at the cushion to keep from pitching over forwards. Her wrists buckled once or twice, and she caught herself with a sharp intake of breath. Once she'd regained her equilibrium, the music stabbed at her again and this time she looked up at Bram to see his eyes open, fixed tight on her, his breathing more controlled than ever.

The song drifted into silence, and he gave her a long, slow nod of understanding (for which she breathed a sigh of relief: someone understood) and then without pause asked, a bit snidely, if her accomplished husband could render any of the more popular music-hall tunes. She took this to mean that he was extremely tired and wished to go to bed; rising, she smacked him lightly on the shoulder before leaning over impulsively to kiss him on the forehead.

Bram smiled up at her with soft eyes.

"Its a unique sort of dead," he observed, "that rises from a faulty grave, gets married, travels abroad, and returns home when he feels as though he's accomplished something."

"At least we may blame it on the grave, for being faulty."

She smiled back at him for a brief second.

"You may be alright, after all," her brother said then, "if he can bring himself to play like that."

"He does many other things that aren't nearly so beautiful," she said, somewhat bitterly.

"If there's that beauty in him," Bram answered seriously, "then he at least has a choice."

She nodded once and went out of the room.

Erik sat slumped over the keyboard, folded in on himself, the mask catching the only light in the room. She was able to pause in the doorway long enough to get her breath back, long enough to compose her face into acceptable lines and take the roughness from her eyes.

"Thank you," she breathed into the utter stillness of the air; Erik inhaled, slowly, carefully, as though he didn't trust the oxygen not to betray him. Then he arose, brushing his fingertips over the ivory and the black in turn, considerately.

He turned to face her.

Secretly she expected another of those long, searching glances that left her squirming inwardly, wondering what he wanted to find in her face and whether he was disappointed by the reality. But he cast her barely a glance before he moved forward, and before she could realize what he was doing he was there in front of her, those long fingers were tipped on the edge of her chin, moving it to one side, and he had placed a gentle kiss on her cheek.

She turned her head towards his again as he lingered there, and took in a quiet breath. He smelled of travel, and movement, and the ocean, and reminded her quite unexpectedly of home; so much so that she stifled a sob in her throat.

He backed away hurriedly at the sound, took a kerchief from his pocket, and very thoroughly cleaned where his lips had been on her cheek as though she expected him to do so. She took his hand in hers and removed the kerchief hastily, stuffing it back in his pocket and giving him a warning glare, to which he responded by blinking, as if in polite puzzlement.

"Your music will kill me someday," she told him. "In the meantime, I believe I need it to live. I am very grateful."

And though he didn't look as though he believed her, he didn't object when she placed her own lips on his forehead; nor when she took his hand and led him from the room.

* * *

Christine shivered and clutched her arms about herself in the predawn light. The air in the room was cold, the bedcovers disarranged, and her nightgown discarded on a nearby chair.

"I can't," she hissed onto her knees. "I feel ancient. I feel as though you'd break me if you tried."

Raoul yawned gently into her hair.

"What is that supposed to mean, 'if I tried'?"

"Ancient," said Christine darkly, and folded her legs up tighter till her heels pressed into her thighs. "I'm drying up, Raoul, like a fountain. Raoul, we can't have any more children."

"Well, not if you continue behaving like this," said Raoul reasonably, nuzzling into her shoulder. She dropped it away from him suddenly and curled deeper into herself. "I don't see what the problem is, dearest. You've lost one before."

Christine bit her knee savagely, with small sharp teeth, in order to keep from crying. Her eyes had dried up as well; she couldn't manage to weep anymore. Through her head marched gravestones, an entire nation of the unborn dead, all of them her sainted, sorrowful progeny. She couldn't possibly mourn all of them; there weren't enough tears from the world's beginning till its end.

Raoul could not see any of this; he judged her a bit touched from the blood and the shock and— he supposed— the pain, but the comforts his embrace could bring had always taken her back to an even state of being, and he couldn't understand what the difference was now. There was a strange smell, a peculiar taste, to his distraught young bride, but he hadn't the patience to analyze it, nor even the means. Erik's encounter with a larger life, as Maggie had noted far away that very evening, had given him a different presence than Raoul was accustomed to; though the smell that clung to Christine's skin had familiar elements, altogether he could not place it.

It was too late to worry about such things, at any rate.

Raoul levered himself off the bed, disentangling himself from Christine's hair, expecting all the while for her to cry in protest; but she only curled herself tighter, if that was possible, and turned onto her side.

"What is it you want?" he asked quietly, brushing her hair tenderly from her face, and curling a finger around the shell of her ear.

Christine bit her finger till she drew blood.

"Raoul, I must go back home. I must go back home."

He let out a soft, wondering chuckle.

"My dearest, you _are_ home!"

She shuddered for a moment at his voice, then turned to face him with violent eyes.

"_France!_" she cried, as though she was betraying herself, and wouldn't speak, or move, any more.

Raoul stood very still by the bedside, repeating the word to himself as though his mind could contain the country, neutralize the sting. He shook his head, slowly back and forth.

"We've only just returned— there will be the next season, my dear—"

"Now, Raoul," she gritted out from between her teeth. "Please. Please."

He looked down at her for a long moment, choosing his words with care. "Christine— I will need you to tell me why."

"I can't."

"I can surmise, I suppose," he went on slowly, as though he hadn't heard her, "but I would like to think that we had left that all behind us."

"Raoul, you cannot imagine—"

"I have left you alone too often, I've been too much away from home— I understand all that. But after these last few months, to further doubt that I have been faithful to you—"

"_Raoul!_" She sat up in bed, disregarding the coverlet which fell from her shoulders to tangle at her waist, and was searching for the words to tell him that _not everything was about him, if he would just listen_, when she caught sight of herself in the vanity mirror across the room. She looked like a wild thing, all white and black, with no sign of relenting on her fair, frozen face. Moonlight shone in myriad sparks of the teartracks; she looked made of diamond.

"Raoul," she said slowly, "I must go back to France. I must leave tomorrow; and you can stay here, if you like. I will trust you for it, and not ask for any account of your time. I won't tell you why, and I wouldn't ask you to guess the reason. Its nothing to do with you, nothing to do with you at all. But I must."

He turned to look at her again; he too had been staring at her reflection. The cool, assertive woman in the glass ruled over them both. Raoul's mouth moved as he silently tried out words and rejected them. There was only one thing he could think of in France that Christine would need to return so suddenly for; and he had thought, and hoped, and prayed, that the one thing was long dead.

But she wasn't asking him to question her; and he thought perhaps it was better on the whole if he didn't.

"I will make arrangements for you," he said at length. "In the morning. Will that satisfy you?"

"Yes," said the Christine in the glass, serenely.

"Now please," said Raoul. "Lie still."


	36. Live Dog

**Chapter Thirty Six: Live Dog**

Maggie fell asleep in the armchair in her brother's room sometime after dawn with music echoing through her tiny house; while she slept, nothing physical changed, but when she awoke it was to a brave new world.

It wasn't more than a few hours into the morning, when she rose and stretched and smiled fondly at her still-sleeping brother (Bram slept on his back, his chest rising and falling evenly, producing a steady snore) but when she emerged from her toilette a bit later, she found Erik waiting for her in the tiny kitchen. He was inspecting cupboards without a hint of shame.

"Are you hungry?" she said, perfectly failing to startle him.

He turned to her and issued a short, formal bow. "Good morning, my dear."

"Good morning, Erik. Let me see what's in the larder." She turned to the pantry and called over her shoulder a moment later, "Cold ham alright? I can put together tea— or coffee, if you wish."

Erik stood in a corner and made not a sound. Maggie busied herself with kettles and plates and knives and bread and butter, then glanced keenly at him.

"Did you sleep at all?"

"One can only expect a certain difficulty finding rest in a strange place," said Erik.

"Not quite the cellars of the Opera Populaire, I take it." He didn't respond. "What is it you're used to, Erik? If I can make you more at home, I'll try."

He paused a moment, and held still; then he looked at her and shook his head. "You've been there, Margaret. You saw what it was like."

"I saw some of it. I should hope that it was more than that: a dungeon. A cell." She smiled at him hopefully, trying to draw a bit of warmth back into him, oxygen to a spark. "You can't have lived like a prisoner all the time."

"I had the run of the entire opera house," said Erik. "There were secret panels, and trapdoors, and swiveling mirrors, and attics, and the hidden places in the wings where no one dared to go because of the legend of the Opera Ghost."

"You. The Opera Ghost."

He shrugged slightly. "I'm not the only, nor am I the first."

"Erik— " She put the carving knife carefully down on the table and spoke slowly. "Are you trying to tell me there's more than one Opera Ghost?"

"I never saw the others," said Erik. He spoke like a man in a dream, eyes behind the mask staring into the middle distance. "I don't know if they were real, just as everyone else didn't know that I was real— and if I never gave them cause to believe in my existence till it hit them like a saber, perhaps the ones who came before me were content to leave me obscure clues, content to watch me as I discovered the hints and possibilities." He shook himself out of his reverie to find Maggie watching him, eyebrows raised. "I don't know anything for certain, Maggie. Except that not all of the passageways were created by me. Some were merely discovered. There are all sorts of legends surrounding theatre life, at any rate," he added. "I am merely one of the most dramatic."

"You sound very pleased with yourself."

"I built my own reputation."

"For mischief—" said Maggie, and caught herself abruptly. "Yes, Erik, you did. You certainly did. And you followed it to an infernal end, bravo, good for you, and I doubt that you'll ever be forgotten. Are you content to be a man, now?"

Erik smiled like a wolf. "It is better to be a live dog than a dead lion. I believe I can— adapt."

Maggie watched him for a moment.

"Now, you're not to go getting any ideas about haunting our cellars. The landlord won't stand for it."

And Erik laughed. Maggie nearly fell out of her chair; but, wisely, she curbed her surprise and laughed along with him. It was a beginning, she felt, perhaps to nothing but normalcy; but after recent events, normalcy was a blessing that she had feared would never be bestowed.

* * *

He came to her in the drowsy afternoon, as she sat repairing one of Bram's shirts. Without a word, he seated himself next to her and fixed her with his gaze.

She did her best to ignore him, and focused on the needle.

"I can't imagine how that boy manages to rip things the way he does," she complained. "You'd think he was gnawing on these buttons, look— its as though he keeps mice in his bed. And he doesn't, before you ask. I know, I'm the one who changes the sheets."

"Maggie," said Erik.

She bit her tongue and looked up at him.

"Will you tell me— where you lived before—"

"Ireland."

"Ireland. Did you live like this? In a flat, with only a few rooms at your disposal?"

She laughed softly. "Hardly. My family is an old one, and we had an inheritance in property more than we did in money. It was a bit of a castle, actually— rambling and old, stonework and moss, we had our very own ruins and that's where my brother slept, actually— and the moors, oh, the moors." She smiled reminiscently. "Stretching endless land to every side. I could hear the wind howling outside my window all day long; I thought it was a wolf, and we wanted to go catch it— no, Erik. We didn't live like this. We had— space."

Erik nodded thoughtfully. "I, too, am used to space," he said. "My lair beneath the opera house, Margaret— its true, you only saw a part of it. There was much more. It was dark, and often cold there beneath the earth, but I could breathe. And here—" He gestured wordlessly at the miniscule sitting room. "Well, that's hardly the case, is it."

She shifted, and stabbed herself with the needle. Erik's eyes riveted to the blood, and from his sleeve he withdrew a handkerchief, which he offered her. She took it, and watched it begin to turn crimson.

"What are you suggesting we do about it?" she asked him quietly. "Or are you just being discontent, after all the discussion about better to be a live man than a dead legend?"

"I'm not," said Erik, and he took her hand and closed his palm over her finger, holding the handkerchief over the bloodflow. "I believe there is something I can do about it. If you'll let me."

She looked into his face, and studied the narrow line of shadow that fell beneath the mask's edge, bridging his face into two sections: eyes, and lips. "What is it?"

Erik took a deep breath, and his hand tightened involuntarily till her own hand twitched from the pressure. "I would like to buy you a house. I would like to buy— us a house."

* * *

"Space," said Maggie. "He's requested space, and space he shall get. He's buying us a home, Bram."

"I understand that," said Bram, folding his arms over the edge of the coverlet. "The question is, what do you expect me to do? Is he also going to hire a manservant to cart me up and down the stairs for meals three times a day?"

She grinned at him. "I already feed you in your bed. Why should that change?"

Bram huffed. "Its a bit different when we don't even possess a dining table. What's brought this on, then?"

"He feels confined. He can't sleep here, he can't get comfortable."

Bram shook his head at her. "Notice that you refer to him for everything? What's it got to do with you?"

"Well, its hardly a hardship to be offered an estate, Bram! And— besides—" she looked down at her own hands, clasped with the handkerchief between them, her blood spotting the pristine whiteness, one bloody fingerprint making a rose on the upturned fold. "He is my husband, and it is right that I think of him."

"An estate. An estate!" Bram shook his head. "Who knew that he had all this money tucked away— travelin's not enough, is it, now there's got to be an estate. The mansion of the Opera Ghost."

"Control your wit, please."

"And what's the price of it?" asked Bram, reasonably if nosily. "Is he a good husband to you, Maggie? Is he worth— everything?"

She stared at him in slightly amused disbelief. "What are you asking me, Bram?"

"Merely about your sleeping arrangements, nothing more." Bram looked pious.

His sister laughed. "Don't you try the innocent act with me, Abraham Blessing. I know you far too well, and for your information, its never worked. Don't you worry about me. I won't be hurt."

"Its a possibility, you know," said Bram, turning suddenly serious, and she could see that he truly was worried about her, though she couldn't pinpoint why. "Its— well. For the uninitiated. For someone like you, Maggie— if you're— Maggie, I can _see_ you biting your tongue. What is it you're trying not to tell me? Don't get so embarrassed."

Bram was a good brother, extremely protective of his sister. He wouldn't like to hear of Erik's behavior towards her, nor of his steady obsession with another woman. And this was not the time to tell him that, husband or no, she was hardly uninitiated. And though it hadn't been her choice at the time, she could at least rest in the presumption that nothing could be more painful than—

She stopped herself there, before the truth could show on her face.

"You needn't worry," she said breezily to Bram, rose, and kissed him on the forehead. "I'm going out. To find an estate."

"What about me?" he called after her, but her voice floated back, punctuated by the slam of the door.

"Erik will keep an eye on—"

"Wonderful," said Bram, rather sourly. "How's he going to do that, then? I haven't _got_ a mirror."


	37. Old Friends

**A/N: Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, its been a long time. Sorry. Anyway, this is for PJ. Or rather, because of PJ, because this update saves me from my brain being eaten or some such nasty Hannibal-ish thing. Right PJ? I'm clear now, right?**

**Chapter Thirty Seven: Old Friends**

Erik, contrary to all expectation, looked not in the least bit nervous. Elegant hands curved carefully around the arms of the chair, one finger tapping a slow rhythm on the upholstery. His narrow shoulders rested easily in the vague curve of the back; he sat bold upright and ready, though not tense. Unfathomable blue eyes trawed a narrow line between beneficent and baleful. He looked like a cat watching a distinctly uninteresting mousehole.

"Maggie slept on that chair last night," remarked his unimpressed and irrepressible brother-in-law, who had been composing limericks about him in his head.

"Did she? She need not have bothered to leave her bed."

"Where did you sleep?" persisted Bram.

"I didn't," said Erik.

They watched each other. Bram narrowed his eyes at him until Erik felt compelled to speak.

"You don't believe that I'm—" He cocked his head. "—_worthy_ of your sister, do you?"

"Worthy of her?"

"Indeed. The consensus, I think, if you asked the general population about the matter, would be that I don't deserve anyone at all. I should have stayed beneath the Opera House, and inflicted my person on no one of more note than rats or the occasional pigeon that had strayed from the square. People say that I am mad, and I can bring others nothing more than what I have myself."

"Maggie's quite mad on her own," said Bram, dismissively. "There's no need to get defensive. What about the diva? Christine?"

Erik bowed his head and lowered his gaze while he thought about the question. "She believed me unworthy of everyone, especially her own precious person. But—"

There was such a long pause that Bram felt he had to prompt. "But?"

Erik met his gaze again, and shook his head. "We've put a rest to that question, with our journey. It is buried in an unmarked grave, and I'd thank you to let it lie and refrain from digging it up again. What is it you want to know about me, Monsieur Blessing?"

Bram leaned forward and folded his arms. "I want to know what you think you're doing to my sister. She's walked into this with her heart open, not her eyes. If you've heard some of our history, I'm sure you know she's had it hard enough."

"From what she's told me, she created some of her own troubles."

"And from what I've heard, you've created most of yours." He held his hand up as Erik started indignantly to speak. "Don't tell me about what mankind has done to you._ I_ never did anything, that's all I know. I can't answer for anyone else. I'm certainly sorry for anything fate brought upon you, but that doesn't affect me as anything other than a seed for a story. I'll write you the lyrics, if you'll write the music, but the important thing is what its going to do to my sister." He swallowed. "She's given up everything for me, even some of her honor. I can't do anything less than watch out for her."

"She's given up much for me, as well," said Erik, levelly. "I can't help but owe her."

They watched each other, matching gaze for gaze, for some time. Then Bram grinned.

"Well, that's a start. You don't look nearly as mad as I had expected, from the way stories go round about it all. Did you _really_ set the Opera House on fire and drop a chandelier in people's laps?"

The young Irishman watched as the erstwhile Opera Ghost's face went through a series of related emotions: from suspicion, to irritation, to incredulity, to the faintest blush of amusement.

"You know," said Erik, "I believe you're the first to ever ask me that."

* * *

The streets were awash with the night's rain, muddied and brown, but the sun had emerged at last and even the mud shone. Maggie shielded her eyes as she moved among the crowds, trying simultaneously to watch that she didn't walk into anyone or through anything. There was a haze of umbrellas on the building-delineated horizon, and a myriad of horses and carriages for those who could afford them; everyone was watching the sky and waiting for the next torrent of rain. Everyone but Maggie, who walked bareheaded in the sunshine and thought about the dark.

It was difficult to realize that Erik and her brother were both waiting for her, back home. It certainly trumped concentrating on the weather.

She hoped they'd both still be all in one piece when she got back—

She made her way to the Opera House and slipped inside, following the same route she had taken the last time she'd come here. The building was just as apparently empty, just as echoing, though she now found evidence that someone— possibly several someones— had taken advantage of a free roof. There were scraps of blanket and the detritus of a misspent life in some corners, and things she would rather not think about in others. She paused only long enough to ascertain that she was definitely alone in the building, then found her way through the trap door and into the tunnels that led to Erik's former lair.

It was easier than she'd thought to find her way. There was only the slightest hint of familiarity about her surroundings; it was the _feeling_ of things, coming like a faint miasma off the walls, that was just as she remembered. She glanced around herself, looking subconsciously for a masked and dark form in the shadows.

There was of course none to be found, and she made her way quickly to where Erik had told her he'd hidden what he wanted her to find. It wasn't all that hidden after all; it wasn't as though someone was going to come down here and find it, she thought, and resisted the urge to knock wood just in case. There certainly was an _air_ down here.

She tucked the articles into her handbag, struggling to make them fit and wondering briefly just how Erik had gotten his hands on them. Reckoning it unlikely that he would ever tell her how he'd come across such fine things as these, she resolutely put their origin out of her mind and was turning back to the way out when something caught her eye.

Something white, which fluttered.

She was struck with a strange fancy, the story of the bride returned for her deathly husband; hiding in the darkness, creeping round the corners, watching from the shadows, waiting, stalking, _reaching_. Having successfully worried herself nearly into a fit just with the aid of her own overactive imagination, Maggie frowned sternly at the wall in front of her and straightened her shoulders. There was nothing behind her, of course.

She didn't look, though, just in case.

Certainly the fluttering flash of brilliance was a peculiar happening, but there was absolutely nothing to indicate that it was part of a wedding dress— now— was there?

She bit her lip savagely and stepped around the corner, following the illusion.

Maggie hadn't been here before on her previous trip or two; this was a part of Erik's labyrinth that had remained unexplored. The walls curved upwards to end a foot or two above her head, and she felt herself ducking, pulling herself downwards to avoid touching the ceiling. If ever Erik walked here, and she felt sure he had, he must have been nearly bent double. She walked along it for a while, casting glances over her shoulder in the direction of the exit. Claustrophobia tugged at the corners of her mind, but the way was clear and though it twisted and turned, there were no branching tunnels. She could return any time she liked, if she couldn't find a way out in front of her. She pulled her handbag closer, clutched at the top of it, bunched it in her hands and felt the bulkiness of the items inside. Perhaps he'd stolen them— well, she said perhaps, it was more than likely, she felt on reflection—

A fluttering just in front of her, rising up from the dank stone floor of the tunnel. A fell wind.

Maggie gasped and threw herself instinctively backwards, her hands coming up to shield her face, and she shut her eyes tightly to avoid the apparition before realizing that this wouldn't help matters at all. She couldn't very well stand there with her eyes shut forever, now, could she? And besides which there was that strange cooing noise that seemed very un-apparition-like.

She peeled her eyes open and was rewarded with the plain and common sight of a dove, about ten feet in front of her now, pecking fruitlessly at the stone floor and minding its own business. Maggie scoffed out a callous breath at her own fright.

"Ridiculous girl!" she said aloud, and strode forward, sidestepping the bird neatly.

Very soon afterwards, the tunnel ended in a strange sort of vision. It was a room, she knew, though what kind of a room she couldn't immediately tell. There was a window between her and it, a full-length window that partitioned the tunnel from the room in a wall of smoked glass. She stepped close to it, put her hands on the glass, leaned close and looked through. Dim shapes, mostly covered in once-white sheets. The ornate leg of a table peeking through underneath one of them, a sliver of a seat-cushion visible under another. And all around, vases and vases of long-dead flowers, stems sick and ghostly, petals long fallen and shriveled to dry bones underfoot.

Maggie put a shaking hand out, and drew aside the glass.

* * *

She decided without much trouble that it was an experience she didn't want to undergo again, at least not anytime soon, and that if Erik wanted anything else from his old haunt, he could bloody well retrieve it himself.

She shook all the way to the estate agent's, and all the way through negotiations had to sit with her hands clamped very firmly between her knees so they wouldn't betray her nervousness. The only time she lifted them from their prison was to grasp the pen as firmly as possible in her left hand and, after only a moment's hesitation, sign the name on obscure and blindingly-legal paperwork:_ Margaret Blessing_. It was probably safer.

Or so she thought.

The agent drew the paper back to him and squinted at her signature so long that she nearly spoke up to decipher her handwriting for him. But he could read it readily enough, and was thinking of other things.

"Margaret Blessing," he said. "That name rings a bell in my distant mind. Have you been here long?"

"A few years now."

"And not looked for property before now?"

"I've leased a flat from a friend. My current residence is written on the first page— there—"

"I see, I see, my child. But I ask for a different reason." He looked up at her from underneath enormously bushy grey brows. "I can tell by your accent that you do not originate in our fair city."

Maggie owned that to be true enough.

"And do you come here unaccompanied?"

Wondering where this was going now, she said, "Not as such, no. I am with my brother, his only caretaker. I provide for our family, and recently have come into enough that—"

But he waved a hand at her, and shook his head.

"Never mind, never mind. Tell me, Mademoiselle Blessing. Do you recall a man, a man named Edward Heath?"

Maggie's head shot up and her eyes widened at him; if the experiences at the Opera House had not scared her enough, here she was presented with a ghost out of her own past. In a voice which shook slightly, she owned that she did recall such a gentleman, and was rewarded with a broad and yellow-toothed smile from the agent.

"Well then," he said grandly, spreading his arms. "I would venture the idea that you are no longer lost, but found."


	38. Point of No Return

**A/N: Thanks again to everyone who's been so patient!**

**Chapter Thirty Eight: Point of No Return**

The house was on a quieter street of town, carefully chosen for this fact. It set back in the lot, removed and aloof from the closest neighbors, the passers-by on the streets, any midnight actions on street-corners, any curious glances, any speculation but that most shuttered and non-specific. It hid; it cloaked itself in trees and anonymity.

Maggie wandered through it restlessly, attempting to familiarize herself with the smaller things: uneven floors, vaulted ceilings, the count of the stairs, the nap of the carpets, curve of the walls, peel of the paper. She meandered through the connecting doors and perched briefly on each wide windowsill. From none of them could she see much of the street. She turned inwards instead.

The kitchen was the most comfortable room.

The bedrooms were silent.

She walked through them all and tried to convince herself that they were now hers; that she no longer lived in the tiny flat, but now in the largest house she'd entered since she'd fled Ireland years ago. She had very few possessions and they took up no room at all. She tried to become comfortable, familiar, pretend this was customary and she could take it all with an unstudied air.

Erik had found the stairs to the cellar, and attempted the same thing.

* * *

She had set the appointment for early the next afternoon, being halfway hopeful that one or the other of them would neglect to remember it. Perhaps not a likely hope, circumstances being what they were, but a hope nonetheless; Maggie felt full of hope, full up of it, practically drowned in it, panic rising with wild optimism, but the edges of her horizon tamped down with the thought that all of it would come to naught. She'd left so much behind, all that she could spare, all that she could take. She hadn't expected it to come after her.

The small cafe where she had agreed to meet him was discreet, at least, and Edward, tall and slim and fair, had found a table nestled in a corner nook where few would notice this first clandestine meeting. First, and last, she thought with a resurgence of the same hope. If nothing else, perhaps she could trust him to leave her be, if she asked him.

He sat at the table and was still; she sank into a chair opposite him.

"Maggie," he said, and in his voice was all the warmth she thought she'd left behind.

"Please," she said, her voice small and questioning like a cat's. "Mr. Heath."

He reached for her hand and when she moved it suddenly, left his own there on the table in a beseeching gesture.

"You have not called me Mr. Heath for a long time," he said.

"I have not called you anything for a long time. It has been quite some years."

"That it has," he said, and with his other hand rubbed at his chin ruefully. "I'm afraid I've grown quite a bit older in the interim, Margaret, while you of course have changed hardly at all. Put it down to your old magic."

She shifted, and sat on her hands. "That I never possessed, Mr. Heath. All I am is all I am."

"Hardly that." He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "What have you been doing with yourself, here in France?"

"Living," she said, and paused on the verge of saying more. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, and she shook her head. "No, that's all I want to say. I've made a life for myself, Mr. Heath, and isn't that enough?"

"Well, its something, at any rate," he said, vaguely disapproving. "I had no doubt that you'd still be living, though it took me the devil's own time to track you down. You've been hiding in the mists, the corners of the world, and here I find you in this city! A phantom in her phantasmagoria."

Maggie allowed the smallest of smiles to touch her lips. "A lady in her labyrinth," she said softly.

He watched her for a moment, and then laughed suddenly. "You do remember the stories I used to tell you, then? When you were small?"

"A ball of string."

"Theseus, yes, among others. All the old classics and legends, perfectly appropriate for a young girl. And you were so young, then." He leaned forward abruptly, and she leaned back. "Why did you leave me, Maggie?"

She looked down at the tablecloth. "It wasn't you, Mr. Heath. You know what I was running from."

"There were never any charges pressed."

"That's because they couldn't find me to press them. I'm aware of what I've done. And I'm coward enough to run and live, instead of face it and die for my sins."

"And no one could blame you," he said, softly. His eyes lingered on her bowed head. "It is good to see you again, Maggie. I've missed you, more than I could say. And I do so appreciate your meeting with me."

"Well," said Maggie, and she lifted her head to smile at him. "Its nice to hear a familiar voice once more."

He smiled back at her and for the first time she allowed her eyes to meet his. It had been so long since she'd looked on him that she wondered for a moment if she wasn't hallucinating; if she wasn't so upset that she'd created her old friend from a fantasy, a delusion. But her hand found his then, and his touch was solid and warm and real. He curled his fingers around hers. A deeper smile crinkled lines around his eyes.

She laughed. "You are getting older, at that."

"It happens even to the best of us." He grinned. "And you will call me Edward, won't you, when we meet again? It sounds so silly, your formality."

Maggie hesitated. "I don't know that we—"

"And we will meet again," he overrode her, firmly. "Believe me on that."

They spoke for a while on Bram's health and current circumstances, and reminiscences on old times at home. At length taking her leave of him with a fond goodbye, Maggie went to the new house, silent, thoughtful, and secretly weary.

It was so strange, she thought, and was unable to finish the sentence till much later.

It was so strange— to look on a beloved face without a mask.

* * *

Erik had wandered farther than he was accustomed. Keeping still to the old habits of walking in shadows when he could, his hat pulled low over his eyes and his collar turned upwards, he walked the stone streets, pacing himself, keeping his tread measured and slow. At length looking up, he found his feet had led him on an old, familiar path.

He hesitated for only a moment before finding a way inside.

The Opera House was more desolate than ever in the approaching dusk and the falling rain. Erik clutched his cloak tighter about himself as he walked through debris and detritus. He cast a glance about himself, for reassurance's sake, before removing the hat.

He made his way through to the old staircases, by the ledge that led down to the first entrance to his erstwhile lair. Standing there, he held his hat over his heart, and swallowed hard, and closed his eyes to concentrate on his heartbeat. Gradually it pounded in his ears, and he knew he wasn't dead.

He was back here once more; but he wasn't dead.

He did not need to enter the lair; he had a home of his own.

And when he arrived there, he found that Maggie had nailed the basement door shut.

* * *

"May I ask what was going through your mind?"

She'd seen him angry before, but not quite like this. Never as though she'd taken something from him, because she'd never been able to. He'd never truly had anything for her to take. No, his angers before had been sick outrages, furious that she'd somehow gotten around his defenses. Now it was simple; a property dispute, she thought, and the idea was almost laughable.

Would have been laughable if he wasn't in her face, absolutely infuriated.

"I have made you a bed up, in the master bedroom," she told him placatingly. "Its through that door there—" she pointed, "—and if you need anything, I am close at hand."

"That is not the issue we are discussing," he gritted out between his teeth. "I had made myself— _familiar_ with that section of the house, and had intended to stay—"

"I know full well what you intended, Erik, but that's nothing to do with anything. You've got the full run of the house, none of the servants I have taken on are staying under our roof. No one will say anything about a man in his own house; at least, as long as he's not sleeping in the cellar. Now—"

He stepped towards her and she stood up quickly, setting her shoulders and her chin and bracing herself to face him. He loomed over her; she told herself she refused to feel inferior, and tried to make herself taller by sheer force of will.

"What difference could it possibly make to you?"

"You don't belong down there!" she told him, folding her arms.

"Who are you to say where I do or do not belong?"

"You sent me out to buy you a house, and a house I bought you. You say you want a normal life— normal people do not live in basements!"

She'd thought his gaze was furious before; now it shook her and she took a step back as he took another towards her. Her knees hit against the edge of the bed and she stumbled slightly.

"Normal people," he spat out acidly, "are not the least bit like you and me. You know that— don't you?— we could not be normal if we tried. A person does not behave as I do, or as you do. A _person_ does not do such things—"

"Are you truly angry because I denied you your darkness?" she asked him suddenly. "Or because I will not sleep with you in your coffin? I do not pretend to be normal, Erik, nor do I have any pretense of desiring to be so. I am—" She smiled suddenly, and he leaned closer, and her eyes focused on what was right in front of her. "All I am is all I am."

"I would not ask of you, and you would not give— any such thing to such a monster."

His voice was angry, his breath hot on her face. She stood, stoic and unbending, looking him in the eyes, for once unafraid.

He would not hurt her. Nothing he could do could hurt her— except continue ignoring her, denying her as he had done all this time. With this realization upon her, she found the courage to take his livid face in her hand and bring it down to hers.

"Hush, now," she said serenely, and put her lips to his.

He stiffened under her touch, his entire body going ramrod straight. He hadn't known a touch like this before— where before she had been timid, as Christine had been timid, Maggie now invaded him and took control, short circuiting his reactions till all he could do was open to her, give himself up.

She took it as far as she knew how, then released him and stood, now slightly shamefaced at her boldness, head bowed before him like a recalcitrant child. For some seconds more his madness raged, silent except for the sound of his harsh breathing.

"You don't," she said softly, "belong down there."

_Leave her. Leave her here_, his mind whispered. He ignored it. Instead he put one hand on her waist, the other on her neck, forcing her head up to look at him. Fear rushed back into her at the sight of him— his eyes glittered. He could take things farther than she ever dreamed.

A cruel smile twisted his lips.

"Words fail me," he whispered, and took possession of her— not only her mouth, but her body, his hands forcing fire on her.

Quite suddenly, they were on the bed and she wondered if she had fainted, for a lot of things seemed to have happened in no time at all. Her clothes disappeared into thin air, and he held himself above her, looking down at her body, his breathing ragged, his eyes wide, as time stopped and light disappeared into shadow.

For a moment they circled each other like heavenly bodies, pulled together by some force beyond their control, so much stronger than them both—

Then he descended, and with him, darkness.

She gasped, she cried— she screamed, and beat at him with her fists in a sudden access of panic. Memories rushed through her mind and flooded light through her darkened body. He screamed back and made a move to roll away from her, but she found the strength to push the memories from her, and pull him back.

Love was like a sword fight, a battle to be won.

Love was a sullen and fierce joy, a deep and pure pain.

Love was a submission and victory, secession, accession, ascension, absolution, two wandering parts of a whole put together again, ragged edges fitting perfectly.

When finally he let go of her, he rolled onto his back, gasping and spent. After some minutes he put out a hand—

_Apologize. How dare you— _

—but she was not there. In alarm he sat up, his eyes searching the darkness for her.

She sat in a corner, arms wrapped around herself, shivering and crying.

Erik swore— he cursed himself, loudly and repeatedly, he clutched at the bedclothes, tore at his hair. He cursed her, too, for provoking him, tempting him, seducing him, sentencing him, condemning him. Maggie only sobbed harder.

He argued with himself— he should leave her to her own devices, go and get cleaned up, he must look a mess— a mess, like she did, her hair mussed, her skin bruised in a hundred places; in the dark, she glowed like a fairylight. He should leave her. He should leave.

No. He was her husband, he had his rights—

And she had hers.

He got out of bed, moving slowly, already strangely sore. For a moment he fought with the sheets, seeking something to cover himself, then gave up. What virtue did modesty hold? He walked to her and stood over her. Her face was buried in her knees and she wouldn't look up.

Finally he went down on his knees before her and begged her forgiveness, as repentant a sinner as ever there was. In amazement she lifted her head.

"There is nothing to forgive, sir," she said. "I knew— I knew how it would be, you see. And still— Erik, I have never before wanted to die. And at the same time, felt as though I could live a thousand years and never get enough. I may be in love with Death, but he is good to me, kind to me, a most generous and benevolent master. What you do to me—"

She reached out a hand, but he avoided her touch.

"It will be better next time," she said. It sounded like a promise. His head snapped up and his eyes glinted in the light coming in through the window.

"There will not be a next time," he hissed.

"Erik—"

"No!" His voice angry and implacable, his eyes set. He stood and turned away from her. "I am going to bed. I'd advise you to do the same— in your own chambers, if you please."

"Erik—" she whispered, but he gave no sign of hearing her. He strode through the connecting door to the bed she'd made up for him— neat and cool— and threw himself on it, spreading an upper sheet underneath him.

For some time there was no noise from the adjacent room. Then, quite suddenly, she was standing above him, pale in the darkness.

"Erik, you do not love me and it is quite possible you never will. But I am your wife. You married me."

She lifted the covers and slid into the bed next to him, turned his face towards hers and stared at him for a moment, then pulled him against her with a strength she hadn't known she possessed. "You are my husband, and I will not be denied any longer."

Erik's mind raced as she held him.

No one ever sought him out.

No one ever returned to him.

This girl— this woman— had his madness been transferred to her?

She kissed his cheek, his forehead, his neck, his mouth, wound her arms about him and breathed him in.

In some wonder, he kissed her back.

"Milady," he whispered, "we would appear to be linked by fate."

"Indeed," she said, a slight but definite smile appearing on her lips. "Captain of my heart, retain your mastery over me—"

She was right.

It was better the second time.


	39. The Last Familiar

**Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Last Familiar**

The darkness crept like a living thing. It blinded the eyes of the passers-by on the street, picked their pockets, sent them home with a dazed emptiness. As too often happened in the city, the clouds of the day had parted just in time for a final glimpse of sunset, more of a regret than a promise, and now the last few good citizens were hurrying to their safe havens, their dinner appointments, their waiting children, their goodnight kisses and family prayers. There were hands to hold, out there, and smiles to keep, and joys to pursue by candlelight.

The woman alone had none of this. Her haven was behind her, and she hoped she was at the end of her journey, though she had not yet found a safe resting place and it was possible she never would. She found an unoccupied doorway, and stood in it a few moments, as the darkness came down augmented by an uncompromising rain.

"Why would you do such a thing?" she said, and no one answered. She folded her arms and looked as though she was waiting, though there was no one there. No one to reply, no one to lead her on. There were too many directions to choose from; she spent a while looking from left to right. When only the patter of the rain filled her head, she spoke to drown it out. "Curse you for a fool. Curse you, Christine."

_Curse you for a fool._

The wall was cold behind her, but solid. A comfort.

"Why would you do such a thing?" she asked again, aloud. Words, breath, the movements of her throat. She thought she could sing. She used to be able to sing. There was music in her mind, once, where now there was only echoes. She could not sing to the echoes. She had tried; her children attested to that. But Raoul was no teacher; he had bricks in his head, she told herself fiercely, and dirt, and city buildings. She stepped away from the doorway at the thought, and began to walk aimlessly. Raoul was an architect, but not a composer. Raoul didn't dream dreams, didn't prophesy, didn't live in any other time than where he was. Raoul only remembered.

_Why would you do such a thing?_

_Curse you for a fool._

She could not think of anything to say in reply to him, so she repeated his question right back.

"And when you find him," she asked the air, "what then, Christine? Does he fall on his knees and thank God for directing you back to him? Does he welcome you back to the underground, the without-light, the worm-tunnels?"

Raoul had always had a flair for the dramatic, she told herself now, though she hadn't thought it then. He could only remember Erik as a thorough-going villain. He couldn't remember Christine's singing, because it had been so long since he'd heard it. She stopped giving voice when he'd taken her away.

"You'll not have the children," she cautioned herself quietly. "You'll not— they'll stay where they're safe, without a madwoman for a mother. I'll marry Cosette, she will be a good wife, she won't frighten the children with sundry horrors and mad tales, and make them afraid of the dark." But _she'd_ never been afraid of the dark, she reminded herself now, as she had reminded herself then, because she'd always known the voice was out there, waiting for her to drift to that space between sleep and waking. Just waiting for her to reach the right position, the right point, so the voice could tell her what to do, how to act, how to sing. How to open up and let it out.

The voice was always there, singing songs in her head, and when it reached her tongue then everyone else could hear it, and if everyone else could hear it _then she was not crazy_.

She wished she'd thought to say that to Raoul as he sent her off, granting her the carriage simply so that she would be gone faster. There was both sadness and mercy in his eyes, it was true, and she thought if she needed to return perhaps there would be a place for her. Not the place she was leaving; but still a place. As for where she was right now—

Lost, maybe, a little, a mad lost woman in the city, not of her birth, but of her renewal. The streets were both familiar and strange, as though in a dream; the cobbles beneath her were crooked and unforgiving, the signs unintelligible. She did not know where to go. She only knew to seek, and hope that, seeking, she would find.

She knew also one more thing. The world was the stage. The audience was silent and breathless. She opened her mouth and sang into the comforting dark, the last familiar, the final friend.

_Why would you do such a thing, Christine? The children— your life here— why would you leave all this? And for what, for— for Erik? You're a fool, Christine. Why would you leave this place? I loved you all these years. Why would you leave me, Christine?_

"Why would you leave me, Erik?"

* * *

He sat up at once, alert and on the move, with that quickness that bordered on the supernatural. His hand crept immediately to her arm, a gesture of ownership that made her smile. She turned away and hid the smile at once, certain that he would see it and discern why.

"Are you leaving?"

"I need to go out." She commenced tugging on her other stocking, taking care not to dislodge his hand. "Did you think I was going to lie abed all day? There's things need doing, and I'm the one that needs to do them." She stood up, turned to him, and smiled. "You were always such an early riser—"

"I confess," Erik admitted slowly, settling back, "to being more tired than I am accustomed to."

Maggie's smile turned into a full-on grin, and she blushed furiously, covering her cheeks with both hands. "Be that as it may," she said past her fingers, "I cannot condone laziness in any form, for any reason. Unless I think of an excuse, and even then, it will have to be a very good one. You will have to rise eventually, Erik— that is, you will have to get out of bed and, er, move about a bit." She dropped her hands and grinned at him briefly. "Gets the blood flowing. I will see that you have some breakfast waiting for you when you come down."

"Where are you going?" Erik asked her, folding his arms. He watched with avid interest as she set about lacing her boots up, and quickly noted the brief pause in her movements before she answered his question.

"As I said, out. I have some errands to run. Nothing too serious, and hopefully I will not be detained long— at least, not longer than I can help." She pulled the laces tight, knotted them swiftly, and stood up again. Her hair was next; it was wild and unruly this morning, the damp in the air sending it into a thousand coils and tangles. As a matter of course she brushed it the prescribed hundred strokes every evening; she had neglected to do so the night before.

"If they're not too serious, perhaps you could send one of the maids," suggested her husband delicately, reaching out to trace her fingertips. "I understand that they are commonly used for such things."

Maggie looked down at their hands, watching the movements of Erik's long fingers over her much smaller ones, and hugged herself abruptly with her other arm as a chill swept over her spine and up the back of her neck. She was the ivory and the black, and Erik was playing her as easily as any other instrument. What could she do about it? She had no recourse, and she wanted none. She felt sounded out; he knew her depths. She'd given him the last of her secrets the night before, and she was placed in the sudden position of having nothing left to tell him.

Except where she was going that afternoon, of course. And it wasn't a secret, she told herself sternly, it wasn't as though she was trying to hide anything from him.

She just wasn't going to tell him, was all.

"I appreciate the suggestion," she assured him, "but its really something I should do myself. Its a responsibility for anybody, you see, and given that we've known the staff for such a short time—"

"A responsibility, but not a serious one?" questioned Erik, arching an eyebrow.

"Exactly that," she agreed quickly. "I may stop in on Bram, as well, and see how he's getting on. You won't forget about your breakfast, will you? I should be on my way." She wrapped a scarf around her abundant hair as a final touch, flashed him another smile and backed out the door. Erik watched her leave, then rubbed thoughtfully at his chin.

"That won't do," he said to himself. "That won't do at all." He waited only a few moments before leaping out of bed and dressing himself. It was a wet morning, rain pounding down as it had been doing for some several days now; he cast a glance out the window and reached for his hooded cloak, then his fedora.

The breakfast went uneaten.


	40. Hell Hath No Fury

**Chapter Forty: Hell Hath No Fury**

The path that Margaret once-was Blessing took was convoluted, winding through streets and alleyways apparently at random. She walked through a crowded street market, passing by flowers and fruit and meat-sellers and fishmongers, taking a moment only to stop and peruse a table of books. Longer ended up being spent there than she intended; she pulled her brother's pocket watch out of her handbag and hurried on, shaking her head. Whatever her destination, there was a time for it as well as a place.

Erik crept on behind her. The streets were busy, but he'd grown somewhat accustomed to walking among others, and somewhat adept at escaping notice. His fedora pulled low, blocking the bright sunshine from his eyes, he'd turned up the edge of his cloak, settling the hood close about his neck and shoulders. There were curious glances now and then at the warmly dressed man on the sunlit street, which he couldn't help returning with a glare, but by and large he was able to get by without causing a stir. It was a far cry, he thought to himself, from— well, from where he'd been before. How things had been. Before.

Things were different now. He thought of the boarded-up basement door, and smiled wryly. As though he couldn't have gotten through, had he really wanted to. It was a gesture, nothing more, and yet it meant something to him; to both of them. Maggie wanted to cut him off from his past, bring him into the light and make him something more than what he was. He could hardly give credence to the notion, of course, but little by little— well, the girl was starting to gain on him.

The girl, his wife.

He shook his head. It was going to take a long time to fully get that set to his mind, as a way of thinking of her. There was so much wonder to her being there when he woke up in the morning.

And here they were now, wending their way through the streets. He couldn't really blame her for not wanting to take him on her errands, of course; nor would he have followed if it seemed that she really was just doing errands, and errands only. But there was something evasive, something slightly devious, about her manner that he thought he recognized. It harkened back to events in his long-gone past: nights underneath the Opera House, mind filled with the simple and pure notion of teaching the disappearing art of music to a simple and pure pupil, leaning with arching fingertips over the keyboard and preparing for the next lesson, and Christine had not come. Had not shown herself. Had claimed the beginnings of a cold, all the while secretly flushed and with knowing eyes; she'd re-met her own ghosts of the past, and this particular absence-causing ghost was a man, named Raoul de Chagny. Erik had begun conducting her from her room and back, after that, and she hadn't missed any more lessons for— well, for a while.

Maggie would come back as easily, he hoped. If he promised to play for her— even if he just asked her, he was confident, she would do as he wished. For the first time almost since he could remember, he no longer felt as though he were standing on the edge of a dangerous precipice. He was, for the moment, filled with a strange and unfamiliar warmth, not unlike that of the sun on the brightest summer days. He had something to return to, as did she. He gazed upon her, yards in front of him, with a fond and benevolent eye, and followed her nonetheless, because old habits die hard; and suspicion dies even harder.

After all, he reminded himself, it wasn't as though he had nothing to lose.

Maggie had gotten ahead of him and out of sight, and he hastened his steps a little more. It wouldn't do to lose her, just at this juncture. Her pace had picked up, gained purpose and lost meandering, and she must be approaching her destination.

The streets here were a little brighter, a little busier, fairly thronged with people. Here and there pedestrians dodged out of the way of carts drawn by steady horses, bartered and chattered and walked arm in arm, and Erik strode on, pulling his hat brim down a bit further. Here there was a square, the cobblestones muddied and stained from the weeks of rain, the ambiguous monument to an unknown man looking bleak and well-worn. Here there were bookshops, cafes, and restaurants. Erik stopped and stood on the street corner, looking about him. Where had she gone? She couldn't have dodged him that easily, could she? He was quite sure she hadn't known he was following.

There! He could see a pale face through the window of one of the restaurants, looming heavy-lidded and disastrously familiar, ethereal, almost disembodied. He was unable to keep the smile from his lips, and stepped forward towards her. What was she doing, eating alone, when he had been at the house to accompany her?

Then he saw.

The man, a good eight or ten years older than Maggie, handsome— whole, his face uncovered— appeared as if from nowhere, though Erik knew he had simply not observed him enter the restaurant. He seated himself next to her, laughing and obviously familiar with her; and Maggie, the wretch, only smiled at him fondly instead of demanding he leave her at once. They spoke; Erik, quite unconscious of his heartbeat until now, stepped closer with it echoing dully in his ears. His pulse was roaring, quickening, thrumming, and though he had never been further away from death than now he felt quite cold all of a sudden, there on the street, alone and about to make a spectacle of himself, he knew, if he didn't leave right away. But he couldn't make himself go. Not while this was happening. Not while all premonitions were growing upon all suspicions, mounting up, and there was no sound except his heart, because his stone dead heart had suddenly decided to drown everything else out. He did not know what his wife, his adulterous wife, his wretched little Maggie, must be saying to the stranger, or the stranger to her; only that they were close and getting closer, and then the door was opened to let someone out and he heard _him_ say—

"You must come with me. I'll brook no argument. I've been searching for you so long, Maggie, and I won't go back home unless you're going with me."

And _she_ said,

"Edward—" Placatingly. Hesitating. Clearly undecided, torn between— between what? What was the hard part of this decision, Erik wondered, when this whole and unblemished man was begging her to go away with him, away from the awful beast she'd married and thought she had left at home, waiting for her, dumb and affectionate as a dog? The man— this Edward— knew she must feel this way. He leaned closer, and he placed his hand on Maggie's own, the hand Erik had held, and kissed, and begun to teach to play all the music in her soul.

Everything had paled and darkened and gone colorless, the ivory and the black; even Erik's heartbeat slowed into nothingness. What business had he with a heart? he asked himself. What business had he with Maggie's?

No business, of course, he did not deserve—

But then again. She had _promised_ to be his. She had said the words. It wasn't a matter of teacher and pupil, of master and student, of elder and younger. She had promised; and it wasn't like when Christine had left at all. When Christine had left, Erik had lost something he'd only dreamed he'd possessed in the first place. Now, Maggie seemed to be fading into the distance; and he was losing something rightfully his.

His heart started up again. It beat sullenly, fiercely, but undeniably.

Monster or no, he would not stand for this.

* * *

"I can't," said Maggie at last.

Edward Heath looked as though he didn't understand; and perhaps he didn't, Maggie told herself, perhaps her reasonings were truly only understandable to herself. She gave a little shrug at the thought. It didn't matter. Tempting as the offer was, she had thought it over thoroughly and she was determined, quite set in her course.

"I don't understand," said Edward, confirming her worst suspicions. She sighed, and smiled, and patted at his hand.

"I'd say perhaps someday you might, but I am certain you never will. I cannot explain everything to you, Edward— I am not at liberty to explain, at least, not in depth and detail; and perhaps it wouldn't make much sense without that. I say perhaps; I know it wouldn't. Even knowing everything, having lived through it all as I have, I still have to say the story over to myself, to try and convince myself it's real." Her smile turned rueful. "It doesn't always work. Regardless. Due to— a set of personal circumstances which I cannot relate, I doubt if I'll ever return to Ireland."

"But surely it would be the best thing for Bram, if the two of you came home."

"You're welcome to ask him. As far as I know he's about to be engaged to a very loving young woman; he doesn't know it yet, of course, but she's told me all about her plans, and she appears to be very determined."

Edward gave a little quirk of a smile, fondly. "That sounds familiar."

"Ah, well, you could hardly be a part of this family_ without_ being determined. That is to say, determination is the least of the supernatural abilities called for." She gathered her things together and stood, holding her hand out to him to take. "I'll say goodbye, Edward. It mightn't be forever, but I'm sure it will be for some time— I have personal things to take care of, as I'm sure you do as well."

He stood as well, and took her hand, looking down at it as though puzzled, holding it carefully that it might not break. Not that Maggie would ever break, of course; she was far too fire-hardened for that, at this point. "But we may be friends?" he inquired cautiously.

"I hope we may always be," she said warmly, and folded her other hand around his.

He looked up at her then. "Does it make you happy— whatever this curious set of personal circumstances may be?"

"I believe it does," she answered truthfully. "And what is more, I may get happier the longer they continue."

"So be it," said Edward Heath, and kissed her hand. He walked with her to the door, and there they parted without any further goodbyes, save one. Margaret Blessing— or who was Margaret Blessing, even if not anymore— turned before she had gone very far, and called after him.

"My regards to Ireland."

He acknowledged with a nod; and took them with him when he went.

* * *

Maggie went home, without stopping. She thought of things all the way home, normal and uncomplicated things, familiar and joyful things. Hearthfires and hearts, dinner tables and bedtimes, and through it all a wonderful, prayed-for music. She was singing as she let herself in the door; she hadn't sung for years, it seemed like, though of course she couldn't be sure. The last time was beyond her recall—

She knew that something was wrong immediately, but was unsure what it was. The house was still and silent as though it were holding its breath, waiting for her to come home so monsters could jump from behind the furniture and descend on her. In the dimming light of advancing evening the shapes of things loomed unfamiliarly; she had gone through two rooms before she realized it was because things were not in their place. The house had been ransacked, turned upside down. It was silent as the dead and at the thought she reached both hands up to her throat; her voice had to push its way past before she could manage to call out, "Erik!"

She ran for the stairs, and up them, holding her skirts in both hands. Achieving the landing she was fighting for her breath, in a panic. She managed to look up, to look ahead of her, and screamed aloud.

Erik was clothed in the dark; the waning light shone dimly off the whiteness of his mask so it seemed to be the only living part of him. He took one of the steps down towards her, and stopped again, and looked at her, and said, "Mine."

She had fallen back against the railing and was holding on for dear life, gasping for breath. She closed her eyes and pressed one hand against them in turn, trying to regain control. "You startled me! I'm sorry, my love, I didn't mean to scream. I didn't—"

Erik took another step.

"I did not expect you back here," he said. "But I suppose I might have. The world outside not what you had thought, my dear? The light not quite as beautiful, the draw not quite as strong?"

She dropped her hand back down to join its fellow holding on around the railing. "Erik— what is the matter? I'm sorry I was gone all day— time got away from me, you see."

"It is not the only thing that got away," said Erik smoothly. He took another step. "Where is your man? I would expect him to be cowering behind you, but he is not here at all. Did he send you for your things on your own, then? Hmm? Did he expect me to hide away while you were here collecting for your trip?"

Maggie made herself straighten up, with an effort, and moved towards him. At once she understood that he must have seen her with Edward, though she knew not how— he must have been following behind. Of course he would be upset if he thought she was seeing another man behind his back; as upset as she would be were she to find Christine here now. She told herself these things, and felt a wash of sympathy. If only both of them were honest; they would know how the other one felt.

"Erik," she said steadily, "I am not planning to leave you."

Erik arched an eyebrow, and took another step. "Oh, I understand that these things are rarely _planned_. A result of impulse, I suspect. The heat of the moment, a palpable _heat_." He hissed the word out viciously. "You could even say that you're not doing it of your own volition; though I think you are too honest for that. Too honest for _that_, at least, my dear, though not honest enough for other things."

"Erik!"

He took another step down. He was very close to her now, and she backed up slightly, holding on to the railing still.

"Will you call it love?" he asked her acidly. "Will you make him promises? Will you love him in the light?"

"I love you," she said, desperate now, "in the light, in the darkness, what difference does it make? Edward is just a friend, someone I have known for a very long time."

"Since you were a child," said Erik bitterly. "And I suppose he rescued negligent bits of clothing from the ocean for you, did he? Was he a _good_ friend to you? Have you loved him _long_, this whole man, this unfettered creature of the light?"

Maggie wiped tears away a bit angrily. "After all this," she said. "After all I've done for you, because of how I love you, and you won't trust me the least little bit. How could I leave you, Erik, when I love you?"

"Everyone leaves in the end," said Erik darkly, and he took the final step. "I'll be the last to go, dying on my own."

"You won't die on your own," said Maggie softly.

"I'll die how I choose," Erik told her, furiously. "They won't catch me— I'll run! They won't see me— I'll hide!"

She shook her head, and sobbed. "You don't have to hide from me." He said nothing, and she looked up at him again and said, more strongly this time, "You don't have to hide from me."

He did not move, and so she reached up and took the mask from off his face, turned and threw it down the stairs; it chipped and bent and broke, and when she turned back to face him his eyes were wide with all the horror he'd ever been faced with; his mouth was open and formless and blank. She stared him down, and did not retreat. Did not retreat, but looked on her Erik for the first time as himself, no masks between them, and put a hand over her mouth to keep from sobbing again. With the other she reached towards him, towards his marred and inhuman face, and he would have let her touch him had he thought she actually meant to.

All he could see was rejection, though, and the formless mouth finally shaped a single, "_No_," and before she could turn away from him, he ran away from her. Put his arms out together and gave her a firm shove away, and turned his back as she fell down the stairs. He shook and shuddered, too overwhelmed with his once more thundering heartbeat to hear her cry as she fell.

Later, he turned back again, lashed with remorse, and beheld her lying at the foot of the stairs, quite still.

The mask lay a few inches away, like a face, empty.


	41. Peace

**Chapter Forty One: Peace**

Maggie lay in solemn state, swathed in white and pale as a ghost, as one already dead. Erik had gathered her up, with utmost care, and placed her on the bed. He sat with her now, watchful and tense, on the alert: waiting, though he wasn't sure what for. Her breathing was slight and barely noticeable. She looked as though she were asleep, an unconscious, unworldly child.

The doctor having been urgently summoned, had come to determine that nothing was broken; that though she had suffered a great shock and would be bruised and sore, she was not scarred or fractured, she was not beyond repair, and with time she would heal. Time, he had stressed again to the otherwise empty room— his patient's curious husband had retired immediately into the adjoining apartment and was listening avidly at the door— time was extremely important. Madame was not to be moved, or be allowed to move, until she was feeling at full strength again. He had said he would return in a day or so to monitor her progress, and taken his little black back of magic tricks, and gone. Once the door shut behind him, Erik had ventured out again to sit by Maggie's side, half grateful that the doctor hadn't asked too many questions; half resentful that he had been unable to confess his sins to anyone.

For a sin it was. This of all others: to harm one who truly loved him.

Even now he could scarcely give credence to it; he wouldn't think of it, he decided. He would wait until she awoke, and if she recoiled from him— as surely she must— he would let her be. But if she remained with him— and how could that happen?— then her love was true; her love was true, and she herself was beyond recall or redemption. He smiled, ruefully. If she stayed with him, after all this, then she truly was as mad as he was, or had been. His wife. His madwoman wife, stronger than ever and able to overcome all odds and evils. If she stayed.

But then again, she might not. She couldn't hardly, after what he had done, could she? No one in their right mind—

He argued himself in circles without once making a valid point for either side. Time and again as he sat there, watching her breathe and feeling his own breath come as slow and tentative as her own, he came back to the expression on her face as she stood and looked at him, unmasked, unhidden. No one had ever looked at him like that before; looked as though, mask or no mask, there was no difference. Looked as though she thought he were whole.

He held her hand.

Perhaps, now, he was.

Their breath, matched for pace and power, made a kind of rhythmic music that he wove a song around in his head. The living song, he called it, a staunch and worthy opponent to all the dirges he had composed over his lifetime. He felt as though he'd been writing for his own funeral all this time— and had never expected to have one. Hadn't thought to be remembered.

He didn't feel forgotten, he realized. He'd always felt forgotten; before.

He clasped her hand the tighter, and began to sing to her.

It was dark and light and then darkening again when she awoke; blinked sleepily as fuzzy images ranged themselves in front of her, trying to make clear sense of it all. It was impossible; there seemed to be no cohesion; she closed her eyes once more and began to sink back into the depths of sleep when Erik's voice called her out of it.

He said her name; and again; and she shifted slightly and he knew that she was as awake as she was going to get. In a low voice he began to tell her of how sorry he was; of how, exactly, wretched he felt. He told her quietly of how much she meant to him, and more quietly still of what he had deduced: that she truly loved him, without and beyond reason. She stirred again at that, and turned her face towards the wall. He barely heard the words she murmured.

"_I told you so_," was what he eventually caught, and he smiled because he simply couldn't help it.

He spoke on, and he wasn't sure how much she heard; she seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper into sleep again. He promised her outrageous happiness if she would give him a chance to provide it; he promised her a normal life such as he himself had always wanted; he promised to write her an opera, if she wished, and teach Bram not only to walk, but to dance, and give her everything she ever wanted, if only she would let him.

"If only," he repeated, and paused, and thinking better of going on, was simply still. He held her hand in both of his, and bowed his head towards it. He was masked once more, for the sake of the servants, and he removed it carefully to press a kiss to her hand, then replaced it once more, sitting up.

"I will leave you to sleep," he informed her with a half-smile, and rose. She was sleeping anyway, with or without his leave, and she wouldn't know if he absented himself for a moment or two.

She stirred once more as he crossed the threshold; but he was looking ahead, and did not see her wake.

He made his way to the library. The servants had tucked themselves into out-of-the-way corners so as not to intrude, and would come only when called for; Maggie had seen to that, when she'd taken them on; had made sure that there would be no curiosity-seeking, regardless of how curiosity-making the house's dwellers were. She was very good, was Maggie, at what she set her mind to. Erik shook his head, in some disbelief, and pondered the changes she'd wrought in his life. Think of how she had found him, all those months ago— it must be six or more, by this time. Think of how he'd loved the dark places and hated the light, and stubbornly stuck to his dream of a normal life whilst doing nothing to achieve it.

Well, she'd handed it to him, hadn't she? She'd scrabbled and fought and been afraid and found courage, she'd confessed her sins and heard his, she'd traveled abroad and come back again, and handed him his dream ready-made while he was off storming about, complaining about the hopelessness of it all. Why bother dreaming at all?

He wondered at what point she had started dreaming for him.

_Of_ him.

He sat at the window and gazed at the oncoming night. The trees ranged about the house were beginning to whip up in an advancing wind, lashed about helplessly, so terrible and so silent, in anguish, from this side of the glass. He could see his reflection, dim and undefined, and it was as though the mask was staring back at him from outside, out there where the crying was happening. The tossing trees, beating their chests in anguish, and Erik staring at Erik through the glass: one of them now, and one of them then.

He held his breath.

* * *

He sat so for a very long time, until at last in the later hours of the night, or perhaps the earliest tiny hours of the next morning, he heard a noise behind him and knew he was not alone. _Think on that, Erik— not alone_. Without turning he began to speak.

"You brought me my dreams," he said. "I'm just now realizing it, the— extent of it all. All those years of single-minded obsession, and along with music I knew I could only have one love. And perhaps it's right, still— perhaps it is my love, regardless of who it belongs to. I cannot have a different love for each person; it must be the same, don't you think? It must be—" He looked away from his reflection but still did not yet turn, but turned his gaze to the carpet beneath his feet. "It gets a little stronger every day," he remarked, his tone even. "Stronger than all those years— it will be the death of me, I am sure of it, if nothing else will be so first. It seems determined to get the best of me; and would, no doubt, if I had not decided to give the best to you. If there is any— if after all this time you can see any— it belongs only to you. My only—"

He turned, then, and Christine took two more quick steps towards him, wringing her hands together before her, a fierce and immutable joy in her face, darkened by the rain-damped hood caught closely around her. Behind her the door shut with a quiet firmness.

"I have found you again, you see," she said, her voice low. "Even as you knew— you _must_ have known— I would! I could not keep away, and though I may have even less excuse than you— still, Erik, to know you will not deny me will make all madness acceptable." She ran to him then, before he could stop her; and Erik was shocked, it was plain on his face, his face beneath the mask which hid everything but the widening of his eyes, and his open mouth; Christine cast her arms like a net about his neck and put her mouth to his.

He moved, then, suddenly, removing her arms from about him with decision and putting her an arm's length away.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed at her. "To come to my house—"

"It is no more than you did to me!" tumbled from her mouth; she was aghast at the thought that he had not expected her, and immediately defensive. "I admit to having no more excuse than you do— and the things I have left behind, to think of them— when you left nothing, to come to me. Nothing except the safety of your shadows."

"And your husband," he said heavily. "Your husband, Christine, and the children."

"Raoul will find another wife. The children will find another mother. They will grow to look like me and he will not be able to bear it and so I will live on with them, always with them, regardless of where I actually am. Do you not care that I came to find you, Erik?"

"How did you find me?"

She tossed her head. "There will never cease to be stories, and always be an abundance of people to tell them. The streets around here are alive with the glimpses of a masked man— the Opera House has been sold. The owners have declared the Opera Ghost to be exorcized— they no longer fear his long-reaching arm. And should they? Indeed, here he is," and she flung both her arms out to indicate Erik, who folded his arms. "Haunting his own domestic castle on Verity Street."

Erik shook his head. The shock was gone, for the most part, and instead he felt quite cold; especially where Christine's lips had touched him. He raised a hand to his mouth; brought it back down again and clenched all his fingers together.

"But_ why are you here_?" he stressed quietly. Christine's odd smile disappeared slowly as she stood looking at him, panting slightly with exuberance and emotion.

"Do you really not know?" she questioned. He shook his head and she stepped forward, put a hand on his arm. "I came because you love me," she told him softly. "And because, as you said, after all this time— your madness infects everyone, Erik. I could not stay away."

"Those words were meant for Maggie," he said.

She only stood and looked at him, and would not reply. He repeated it again, angrily this time. "Those words were not meant for you— they mean _nothing_ to you. They were meant for—"

"I heard," she said, quietly, cutting across him. "And I believe you think you mean it."

"I do mean it," he told her. Her eyes searched his, she clutched at his arm tighter and leaned into him, looking for the truth. He met her gaze squarely.

At last she subsided, let go of him and stepped away. All the animation, the drive had gone out of her shoulders; she stood slumped and listless. "I see." When he said nothing, she stepped even further away, began to turn towards the door.

"What will you do?" he called after her, as she reached it.

She banged her forehead very softly against the old, grainy wood.

"I'll go on as ever," she said. "The greatest things you taught me still stand me in good stead— to love with one's whole self, to know the value of the night, and to stand and sing while the house burns around you." Then she was gone, and Erik stood still; had he taught her any of those things, truly? And what had she taught him— the purpose of obsession? The value of love? Or only how much it hurt when it was not returned?

And yet he knew now the true value of it, and had the happiness as well. There was Maggie, faithful, canny Maggie, and waiting for him still. He pressed his hands firmly over his head, straightened his jacket, and moved for the bedroom, beginning once again to sing and not noting that the house, with the echoes of Christine dying away along the corridors, felt strangely empty.

She was not in her room.

There was a note on the pillow; there might as well have been a pile of ashes, and a burned down house. Erik knew what being left looked like; he advanced very slowly and with great dignity to the note, picked it up and read Maggie's spidery handwriting.

_My Erik— _

_I am unsure of what to say, except that I do not hold you accountable. Do not fear that you have hurt me beyond what I can bear. I have carried burdens before and though I admit this looks to be the worst, I will continue on as I have all these years._

_I hope any comfort I gave you was of some little help. I am under no illusions about my meaning to you, about what place I hold in your heart, in your life. Having seen you with Christine, as I have never seen you before, and heard your words— I could not keep the delusion I had so faithfully built up. I knew going in what the end would be: perhaps we were not destined for happiness, but I wish you all joy of it with her._

_We all live by obsessions, my dearest: life is made up of them. I realize now that I could never be the superior one; that there is another that will always come first. You didn't choose it to be this way, and certainly I would not have wished it. But I've learned by now— and you were not the only one that taught me— that life is like music. However hard we may wish for it to go on, eventually it must end; and the melody will play on only in our mind. _

_Please do not think of forgiveness. I would offer it to you if I thought you needed it, and if I thought I was worthy of providing it. We ourselves render absolution impossible. The closer we get, the more elusive it proves to be, slipping like sunlight, like music through our fingers. I cannot pretend to deserve anyone, perhaps you least of all. Adultery will not be added to my list of sins and so while I wish you the light you deserve, I remain, _

_for all my sins, _

_yours._

The house pressed in around him, cloaked in silence, in darkness, and the night.


	42. The Superior Obsession

**Chapter Forty Two: The Superior Obsession**

The man in the mask presented a curious spectacle, as he stood quite unheeding of the sunshine and the thronging crowds about him. It was true that in days not long past he would not have been so careless: indeed, if things were as usual perhaps he would have even now been lurking in the shadows, careful and quiet and suspicious as a night-beast. But things had changed as time had gone on; and he was as human as the next man, mask or no, and the one thing humans had always done admirably was adapt. Change. Grow. Move on.

Besides which, he told himself, putting his arms behind his back and firmly clasping his right wrist with his gloved left hand, he would not be known here. His tale had yet to travel so far, he trusted; and though the Irish were renowned as great and enthusiastic story-tellers, as yet there would be no reason for them to turn a suspicious eye on the masked man. He was a lively new anecdote, not a disturbing old legend, leaped to the flesh and here to despoil them, to curse them all. True, he was dressed in black, and somber in appearance; but at most the rumors concerned his proposed profession as an undertaker. Certainly there was no talk of monsters, or living corpses, or ghosts of any kind, Opera or otherwise. Certainly there was no talk of a phantom.

Here he was, after all! Large as life. Right there among them.

He was gritting his teeth the whole time, but he was there nonetheless.

He walked on through the marketplace, aloof and unchallenged. Here and there were booksellers, but more often he saw applecarts, tables of potatoes and carrots, fish eyeing him as he passed by, the vendors all hawking their wares as better, fresher, cheaper; he moved on, and looked upwards, at the piercing blue sky, so bright there was more clarity to the horizon than he had ever seen.

A little ways on, a fiddle player was tuning up; and as the man with the mask approached, the musician broke into a song; not the reel he'd been practicing, no, but something slower, sadder. Something nearing a dirge, brought back at the last moment by the tiniest upturn to the ends of the phrases, the tiniest bit of barely-expressed optimism. What was it— _hope_. Perhaps unfounded hope, the tune suggested, but hope nonetheless. Because where there was life—

Or was it, perhaps, the other way around?

The masked man had paused by the fiddle-player, his fingertips meeting in front of him like a man at prayer; he listened through the song and when it was over, gave the musician a deep nod before moving on. There was one thing that was the same, wherever you went— music. The pull, the lure and call of the notes, the spindly staggering sound turning unexpectedly rich and deep. To dim the light and set the mood; to enchant the hearer and bind them to your will. It was a game he had played often; one he had never lost. He walked forward with the knowledge of it weighty on his mind: it felt like goodness, and redemption, and forgiveness. The music would never leave.

Here he was in a foreign country; he didn't speak the language, he didn't catch the looks. All he knew was that he was no longer a story to frighten children with, and so long as he didn't set out to become so, he could remain untouched and untainted. As much as any human is, at any rate, he reminded himself; and when it came right down to it, perhaps he could play for divine justice and gain some absolution.

Perhaps he'd do a bit of looking around while he was here; it had been years since he'd been away from his home.

Perhaps he'd see if there was anything worth taking with him, when he went.

* * *

_A/N: So yes, after about fifty years and endless procrastinatory tactics, I've finished it at last. Many heartfelt thanks to everyone who stuck with this through to the rather bitter end— I know I've disappointed many of you by my screwy updating schedule, since it's been kind of "one chapter every eight months or so." Thank you for being (somewhat) patient with me, and I'll see you on the dancefloor!_


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